


Titanomachia

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Matchmaking, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, a lot of anachronisms, as usual, side pairings i won't tag, the mythology au one person asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: A devastating war between the gods of Olympus and the Titans is thwarted when the Twin Sons of Hyperion arrive at the gates of Olympus with a proposal of armistice. With the Titans' greatest hopes now working for the Olympians, the war ends quickly and decisively.Dawn-eyed Lilith, Queen of Olympus, wants to bind the treacherous Titans' loyalty to Olympus forever. And what better way to do that than to get them hitched to a lucky god or goddess? Lilith tasks former muse and current God of Romance and True Love, Rhys, to play matchmaker for the boys.To Rhys, this should've only been just another job. However, hitching sweet but boring Tim's wagon to the correct horse proves to be more of a challenge than Rhys would've thought...





	1. Chapter One: The Twin Sons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scootsaboot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot/gifts).



> From my [tumblr](http://nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com), courtesy of @scootsaboot: _are you still wanting requests? idk how into AU you are, but I'd love to see something mythological with rhysothy altho i literally Cannot think of anything anymore specific than that :x_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The traitorous Titans arrive and prevent a devastating war. Rhys, God of Romance, is spared the task of taking up arms. But his queen requires his services in another venue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes.
> 
> So, first of all, thank you for clicking on what is probably the most ludicrous AU I've ever written. It'll be eight chapters long and deeply ridiculous. 
> 
> Second of all, please note that I'm playing _very_ fast and loose with historical accuracy here. This story, in theory, takes place in the Hellenic age, but characters write on paper, and there are horse drawn carriages, and... look. Nobody uses electricity and that's about where I drew the line. Everything else was fair game. If anachronisms drive you up the wall, this probably isn't the story for you. 
> 
> Third of all, this is mostly inspired by Greco-Roman mythology, but there is a dash of Norse here and there. This story was partially inspired by the story of Prometheus and Epimetheus, Pandora and Epimetheus, and a very little bit by the story of Cupid and Psyche.

It should’ve been the war to end all wars. As far as Rhys understood, every war was. Every time those who shook heaven and earth took up arms, the fields ran red with spilled blood. And every time their elders and their betters vowed it would be the last. It never was.

The war between the Olympians and the Titans had been brewing for nearly a century, animosity boiling over in skirmishes across history. Foretold in countless prophecies, by oracles long before even Rhys’ time. It was as inevitable as the flow of stars across the galaxy’s arm. It was only Rhys’ bad luck that he should be alive to see it.

Everyone was worried, although no one would admit it. The mortals had armed their pantheon with countless warrior gods and goddesses, more than Rhys would’ve thought necessary, but now it seemed like it wouldn’t be enough.

“It’ll get ugly at the end,” Moxxi predicted. She had no gift of foresight—as the matriarch and goddess of love, her power was great but her influence limited. She confided these little insights to Rhys, and not, to Rhys’ smug satisfaction, to Vasquez. As the god of union and true love, Rhys liked to think Moxxi might’ve favoured him over Vasquez, the god of ardour.

“It’ll come down to strategy, mark my words,” she went on, certain as the sun rising in the east.

Queen Lilith, she who controlled the slumbering flame at the heart of the earth, had been at the oracles for years now, hounding them for answers. The future, not for the first time, seemed uncertain. The goddess spat fire, her eyes like the sun, and tried to wring blood from a stone, but they could no more give her a clear vision than they could birth a two headed serpent.

The trouble started with the birth of Hyperion’s latest progeny. Twin sons, an omen or a blessing, depending on your angle.

The power of a Titan was mighty but tempered. Mortals did not worship them the way they worshipped the Olympians. The powerful, iridescent flames of their little hearts didn’t burn for Titans. They didn’t create temples to their greatness, didn’t leave offerings for their blessings, didn’t contribute to their power by even the smallest amount. The power of the Olympians flourished under mortals’ tending. It was to their benefit, but also to their detriment, as mortal regard was a fickle thing.

Titans had no need for the power of mortal belief. They were strong, and stable, without it. A fixed point in the flux of influence. But it curled the reach of their influence. For a while, the Olympians could sit comfortably in their mortal-made thrones, confident in their status, their approaching victory.

The twin sons of Hyperion had the talents of the Titans who had come before them. They were trained from a young age to be cunning and wise, quick and deadly. Both of them rose quickly, besting their elders in combat. Their powers were solid, independent of mortal belief. They were strong. Stronger than their father, the mighty Hyperion. Stronger than the sky shaker, Theia, who birthed them on the side of a mountain. Stronger, or so it was rumoured, than even the sky god Ouranos, father to us all.

There was Jack, first from his mother’s womb, intelligent and cunning, cruel and ruthless. The sharpness of his blade matched only by his tongue. More than one unfortunate god or goddess had been goaded into battle before their time, and escorted to the gates of Elysium for their troubles. His truest strength lay in strategy. Stalemates became victories under his guidance. General of the Titan’s army, Jack was more than formidable. He was almost certain death at their doorstep. No one was his equal with the blade.

But there was one who was his better. Tim, the youngest of his mother’s sons, born minutes after his brother. Tim, who took to the sword as soon as he could walk. He could cleave through a battlefield like a sharp knife through the flesh of ripe fruit. Easily lost in the lustre of his brother’s glory, but only a fool would overlook the threat he posed. 

When the twin sons became of age, they were introduced to the battlefields and the Olympians were given first-hand demonstrations of their prowess. Those who survived the encounters came home scarred, missing limbs, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed. The battles grew worse all across the lands. The mortals burned meat, left offerings at every shrine, begging for a ceasefire.

Rhys heard what few pleas were directed to him with an uneasy heart. There was nothing he could do, of course. He was one of the few Olympians whose hands were soft, whose flesh had never witnessed the violence of battle. He wondered, as more and more of his kin picked up arms, if his circumstances might change in the future. When the twin sons of Hyperion came to their doorstep, would he be expected to pick up a sword, to defend their home? He trembled with the fear of it.

And then, sooner than anyone could have expected, the twin sons of Hyperion did come to their doorstep.

They arrived without a retinue. They arrived without weapons. They had only the armour on their backs, atop their steeds with coats of snow, the famous and fine horses of Titans. Jack stepped to the sealed gates, cupped his hands over his mouth, and demanded audience with the Queen of Olympus.

The court scrambled, because Jack had a voice that demanded obedience. Before the sun had fully risen to prominence in the sky, the twin sons of Hyperion were seen into the throne room.

News spread quickly and the city swarmed with life as the sun climbed in the sky. Everyone gathered. Even the weakest gods, even those who were not gods at all, the muses, found their places around the perimeter of the queen’s own courtyard. Many were forced to sit on the floor. Rhys had been granted a place representative of his importance, seated at Moxxi’s right hand. He had a clear view of the main floor, where the twin sons stood alone.

Lilith took her time. She lounged in her throne, crossed her legs, and rested her hand lightly against the pommel of her sword.

“So. Hyperion’s boys have come calling at last. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

“Let’s just get one thing straight before we get to the good part: Timmy and I aren’t here to start a war,” Jack said.

A murmur breezed through the audience. Not the last one they would hear, Rhys was willing to bet.

“Really.” Lilith’s lips, the colour of ripe cherries, pulled back in a sneer.

Roland, the God of Strategy and Persistence, and their queen’s faithful guardian, shifted his weight. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“We’re here to talk peace,” Jack said. Another murmur.

Yellow-eyed Lilith leaned forward. “You Titans want to make peace with us?”

Tim clicked his tongue. A small sound that Rhys could just hear over everyone’s wild conjecture. Tim looked over to his brother, his expression difficult to read.

“Not all the Titans. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get your hopes up,” Jack said. “We’re talking peace only with us.”

Everyone fell silent.

Jack smiled. “See, me and Timmy were thinking that this whole war scenario just didn’t seem like a great idea. I mean, your side wins and we’re boned, right? You send us to Steele’s realm where we’ll suffer for eternity. Not appealing. And if our side wins? Then I’m stuck listening to pop’s lectures for the rest of eternity. ‘John, you have to listen to me. John, the world doesn’t understand us. John, strength is the only rule.’ Blah blah blah. That’s actually worse than whatever Steele could dream up.”

“So…” It was hard to tell, but their flame haired queen seemed unsettled. She looked down at Roland, a lightning quick glance. “You don’t want to fight us?”

“We want to do you one better,” Jack said. “We want to join you.”

More than a murmur this time, as the crowd began speculating behind their hands. Rhys turned, wide-eyed, to Moxxi.

“If they don’t fight us—” he began, but Moxxi held up her hand. She was staring intently out at the audience.

“This sounds like a joke,” Lilith said, pitching her voice over her subjects. “You’d actually join us? Why should I believe that?”

“Watch 'em, Rhys,” Moxxi said quietly while Jack began talking. “Look at the crowd.”

For what? But Rhys did what he was told. He scanned the crowd, looking for something amiss. Most of his fellow Olympians looked disturbed, frightened. A few looked disgusted. One or two looked intrigued.

The Goddess of Law and Order had leaned forward in her seat, her lantern eyes intent on the scene below. Her plum-dark lips parting. Rhys followed her gaze.

He saw Jack first, because that’s what everyone saw. Jack was the loudest, he was the most expressive. His fine, golden armour caught the rising light of day. He gestured with both hands while he spoke, as if conducting their attention. Rhys could admit that he, too, was a little intrigued.

Tim stood at parade rest behind his brother, his expression empty, eyes idly scanning the crowds around them.

For a moment, his mis-matched gaze met with Rhys’. And Rhys felt it, like a pin in his heart. He flinched back, blinking.

“Are you okay?” Vaughn, god of commerce and travel, asked. He touched his fingers tentatively to the back of Rhys’ mechanical hand.

“Yeah,” Rhys said. He looked back to Tim, but Tim was staring straight at the front of the room. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

* * *

Rhys wished it could be that easy. The twin sons pledge their allegiance to the Olympians, preventing the war. But Lilith the conqueror, she who spoke a voice of fire and destruction, was not so easily swayed. She had them both sent to the cosiest prison cells in Olympus, guarded by her two most watchful warriors. The Titans went without a fuss—almost as if they were expecting it.

All the gods and goddesses waited, gossiped, speculated. What could drive the two golden buds of the Titans’ family tree to seek clemency at the gates of their city? Was it a trick? Was it a clever ploy? Did they intend to infiltrate, to consume Olympus from within? Were those twin harbingers of destruction here to gnaw at the foundations of their very lives, like termites in a forest?

Queen Lilith had them interrogated by every truth seeker she could get her hands on. It took days. She went to them personally, again and again, and questioned them relentlessly. Rhys only heard of it second-hand, related to him by the goddess Sasha, who had heard it from the deathless sentry, Mordecai.

“Jack never changed his story. She must’ve asked him a hundred different ways. He never wavered.” She shook her head.

“What about the other one?” Rhys asked. “Did he talk at all?”

“Oh. Tim? I don’t know. They didn’t mention him.”

No one did. The stories everyone told were about the fearsome Handsome Jack.

It took days. Almost a week. But eventually, to the amazement of the Olympians, the Titans were released.

“Their story checks out,” the queen of them all said with a shrug of her powerful shoulders.

“After thorough interrogation by our finest truth seekers, and by myself and the queen,” her watchful general, Roland, said in his usual patient, even tones. “We have come to the conclusion that the twin sons of Hyperion are truthful with their intentions. We have decided to offer them clemency, and allow them to stay.”

Every Olympian had an opinion, something to share to their neighbours in an undertone that carried. The sound was like a courtyard full of chattering magpies. Rhys kept his mouth shut, even as Vaughn shot him a wide-eyed look of amazement.

“Dude,” he said. “Do you know what this means?”

No war. Rhys curled his fingers into his soft palm and let out a sigh of relief.

He looked down at Jack, who stood tall and proud in the centre of the courtyard, a small smile on his lips. Jack seemed like the sort of person who thrived under the attention of a hundred plus immortal beings. He practically glowed under their scrutiny. Looking at his face, Rhys could understand why it had taken Lilith and her people so long to decide. He looked like the sort of person who’d gotten away with something.

Rhys’ gaze slid over to the brother, who stood no less tall but somewhat less proud. His face was an empty vessel, clay before it’d been painted. He stared straight ahead at nothing at all.

Rhys couldn’t tell if he was relieved their eyes didn’t meet once more. The queer feeling in his chest hadn’t made another reappearance since. Perhaps it was for the best.

* * *

It would be nice to think that the war could have been averted. For a while, Rhys did think that. He may have been the only one in Olympus who did.

The countless warrior gods continued their training, their plotting, their strategies, just as before. Only now, they included the twin sons in their drills, in the briefings. Even in the war room.

There was a war. There had to be. But it was mercifully brief. General Roland lead the armies of Olympus against the enraged and desperate armies of the Titans, and won. On the battlefield, it was said, that Jack lead his own battalion to a golden victory. He spent hundreds of their clay soldiers at the grinding Titan war machines, but nearly every godly soldier under his command survived.

On the battlefield, it was said, Tim cleaved a path of blood and flesh through his own family. That he stared into the eyes of those who’d raised him, those who’d trained him, those who’d taught him, and cut them down, each and every one. Rhys shuddered when he heard those stories. 

When the war ended, and the Titans were sent on their final, sad procession to the underworld, where they would suffer the tender mercies of the half-dead goddess Steele, no one shed a tear. Jack watched from on high, with the other generals, a cup of wine in one hand and a smile on his face. Tim sat at his side, his own glass untouched.

It might’ve been the shadows. It might’ve been the wine Rhys had been drinking, or the angle he could observe them from, but it seemed to him as if Tim didn’t look pleased at all. He shed no tears, but he did not share his brother’s smile.

Rhys watched him until his vision was blocked by revelry. Someone pushed another cup of wine in his hands. A warm arm draped itself around his shoulders. Rhys forgot about Tim.

* * *

The seasons turned, and things settled. It was strange, after all the doomsday preparations, after every worst case scenario had played out inside of Rhys’ head, to have things return to the way they had been before.

He returned to his duties, oversaw fated unions, bestowed his blessings upon marriages, nudged along couples who would serve as good partners to one another, who were only in need of their destined meeting. He returned to his temples to collect his offerings. White and pink hydrangeas, dahlias, amaryllis all were left at the base of his shrine, in the hopes of currying favour.

When the season of rain began to dry out at last, and the season of growth began to blossom across their blessed country, their queen and leader called Rhys into a private meeting room, in the hour past sunset. The other gods were occupied with the equinox celebration, and there was no one to witness Rhys’ arrival at the statue garden. He was not at all surprised to see Moxxi waiting for him. He was a little annoyed to see Vasquez at her side.

“You’re late, Rhys,” he said by way of greeting.

“I’m on time,” Rhys shot back.

Hugo looked to be in fine form tonight, dressed in his usual midnight tones, accented with his golden jewellery, his beard well-groomed and his hair shiny with oil. Rhys resisted the urge to fiddle with his own style. His hair looked good, he knew. And his pale blue robes were perfectly keeping with the cut and style of the season.

Vasquez looked ready to provoke Rhys further, but Moxxi placed a warm hand on each of their shoulders before things could escalate.

She lead them inside, where Lilith was waiting.

“Good. You’re here. Let’s make this quick, okay? I want to get back to the celebration. Mordy's challenged Salvador to a drinking contest and I don’t want to miss it,” she said. It was a strange sight, to see the queen without her usual retinue, to have her standing before them and not seated on the divine throne.

“Whatever you like, Lil,” Moxxi said. “What’s this all about?”

Lilith gaze slid from Moxxi’s face over to Rhys. For the first time since he’d been granted the divine realm of his influence, he was the sole focus of their queen’s attention. Rhys tipped his chin up, stuck his chest out, and did his best to look worthy of it.

He couldn’t read her. It was rumoured that no one really could. Their stone-faced queen. Her molten eyes spoke of hidden depths, secret stores of anger and violence. Rhys tried not to sweat under their heat. She looked away, over to Hugo, and Rhys let out the breath he’d been holding.

“What I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room,” she said.

Rhys nodded, his spine straightening.

“It’s about the Titans. _Our_ Titans, the twins. They’ve been loyal so far, true to their words, but I’m not convinced they’ll stay that way indefinitely,” she said.

Rhys blinked. He had assumed, like the rest of Olympus, that the handsome twins were safely on their side, to be treated and back-stabbed the way they would to their own kith and kin. These days, Rhys could only see Jack from afar, always surrounded by admirers, his voice carrying over the most crowded room. People gossiped plenty about the sort of things he got up to in his downtime. It seemed as if peace time, and the hedonism that came with it, suited Jack.

Rhys rarely saw Tim at all.

“You’re looking for a way to keep them sweet?” Moxxi asked.

“Sweet as can be. And there’s nothing sweeter than true love’s sting, or so I’m told,” Lilith said. “I want them bound to us. I want to see their applecheeked children bumbling underfoot. I want them settled, and married, to one of our own.”

“All due respect, sugar,” Moxxi began, canting her hip to one side. “But those boys came to us ready to slit their pa’s throat. You think they wouldn’t do the same to whoever they happen to marry?”

“What’s that saying about blood and water?” Lilith folded her arms. “No one likes their parents. But hopefully everyone their spouse.”

Moxxi hummed under her breath. Rhys hoped she was considering Lilith’s words carefully, because Rhys certainly was. She was looking for a real bond. For true love. Romance.

“I could do it,” he said, before he could think better. The queen turned to him, one brow raised. “If it’s true love you’re after, I’m the one you want on this mission.”

“Your enthusiasm is commendable, Rhys, but misguided,” Vasquez’s voice oozed forth. “True love is tricky. And it’s often messy.” He stepped forward. “Ardour is quick. A prick from one of my arrows, and you’ll have them both drooling over an Olympian of your choosing.”

“What you do is a parlour trick,” Rhys said, matching Vasquez’s condescension with practised ease. “Your little toy arrows are poison. I’ve seen what happens to the people you shoot. Their unions are a bramble patch. It’s all thorns. And it never, ever lasts.” Confidence was always a good look for Rhys, and he was always confident. He straightened his shoulders and smiled. “My methods may be slow, but they’re better. I can deliver true love.”

Vasquez snorted. “Your attempts fail at least 70% of the time.”

Rhys’ flawless smile faltered. “You pulled that statistic out of your—”

“It’s all guesswork and relying on luck,” Vasquez went on, talking loudly over Rhys. “Hoping that the fair maiden will rip her robe in the right marketplace so the shopkeep will see her and offer her a free mend and blah blah blah. My arrows are quick, and they’re powerful. Guaranteed success.”

Rhys crossed his arms. “Guaranteed for the first week, maybe, and then it always falls apart. Those relationships you force on people are ugly. And the queen is asking for unity, not a quick fling that ends poorly.”

“Alright, enough.” Lilith sighed and rubbed at her head. “I don’t know. All that love stuff… Moxxi, this is your realm. What do you think?”

Rhys looked at his matron goddess with naked hope in his young face. Moxxi didn’t look back.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said.

Moxxi lead them both outside, back to the courtyard where a crowd of marble statues watched them with blank eyes.

“Lady Moxxi, time could be of the essence. If the Titans are planning something duplicitous, we need results and we need them now,” Vasquez said. “Put me on this mission. You won’t regret it.”

Rhys laughed. “You absolutely will. The first time things go sour between the Titans and whatever poor sap you foist on them, we’ll all regret it.” He turned from Vasquez’s reddening face. “Lady Moxxi, the twins haven’t made any moves against us yet. Let’s not give them reason to. A true love union will only give them more reason to trust us, to remain loyal.”

“Alright, that’s enough, you two. Glory, you both feud worse than my own kin. Now hush up while I think.” Moxxi pressed two fingers against her forehead and let her eyes slip shut.

Rhys kept his mouth closed, although it was difficult to remain silent when he knew he was right. He watched her expression closely, and waited.

At last, she opened her ruby lips and said, “Rhys.”

Rhys snapped to attention. “Yes?”

“Find them someone good,” she said.

* * *

Rhys started with Jack because he had a feeling Jack would be difficult.

Rhys had been in this business for longer than he might care to recall—although he still felt as young and fresh as a spring morning—and he had encountered Jack’s type before. Those who might react to the prospect of true love, and all the strings that would come attached to it, as one might react to finding their sleeping chambers on fire. Those types always viewed marriage as a locked cage, which offended Rhys to his core.

He observed Jack from the safety of the scrying pool in Moxxi’s personal garden. Hidden beneath the ever-blooming boughs, and the weeping willows that bent their weighted heads towards the water, Rhys saw Jack in a way he was not afforded to before, when his vision was limited by the crowds in every party they attended. Rhys saw what he expected to see.

Jack liked to fight. He haunted the training grounds on odd hours, pulled anyone who had the misfortune of standing close too him into a match. He won more than he lost, which mildly impressed Rhys.

Jack liked to drink. When he wasn’t at the training grounds, he was sprawled over a settee with an amphora of wine close at hand.

Jack liked to talk. A lot. To anyone nearby and interested in hearing his voice. He had quite a few admirers, which meant there was always someone.

Jack liked to fuck. Well. That was no surprise. Rhys was no prude, but he did try to respect his client’s privacy.

Rhys considered the catalogue of potential partners, those in Olympus who were still single. It wasn’t often he was called upon to play matchmaker for the gods, but it was always entertaining. After an afternoon spent lounging in the crystal clear waters of the scrying pool, and after some very serious contemplation, Rhys decided the Goddess of Law and Order would serve as the perfect candidate.

Nisha, daughter of night, was beautiful the way a well-honed blade was beautiful. The way a poisoned apple was appetizing. Scars covered her smooth skin like fine cracks in a mended vase. She had eyes of soft gold and hair like the night sky above the desert. She was powerful, adventurous, cruel, and independent. Rhys had no evidence, but he had a feeling she might be more understanding of a partner’s need to step out now and then.

Rhys made the arrangements. Nisha would be in the training grounds on the same time as Jack. It was insultingly simple to set up, because neither Jack nor Nisha would not look twice at an invitation to battle. Rhys stepped out of pool, his skin aglow with the treatments he’d administered (he always did his best work in the soft and yielding bosom of being truly pampered) and with future success.

* * *

Everyone had needs and wants. Everyone had levers to pull. Buttons to push. Part of Rhys’ job, part of what made him more successful than certain other, lesser gods who happened to share his divine sphere—those who cheated their way forward with stupid arrows—was figuring out what those might be for each of his clients. Jack might’ve had a complicated mind on the battlefield, but his needs were simple.

Nisha had been a subject of Rhys’ consideration even before this task had been issued to him. Partially because she, like many of the sword-wielding, scarred warriors that marched a path of dust and smoke in their wake, rather intrigued him, even as she terrified him. Rhys had a type.

Rhys was an artist, and it only took one meeting. He watched it happen, dragging his fingers through the clear, still waters of Moxxi’s scrying pool. Through the ripples, he could see the way they circled each other, the way they watched each other. The sparring session itself was long and shockingly violent. Rhys wasn’t familiar with the rules of the training grounds, but he suspected they were breaking every one.

They both had blood on their lips, between their teeth. Jack’s eyes watered from an earlier attack. Nisha’s face bore the oozing dual crescent of a bite mark on her soft cheek.

Jack sliced the leather strap of Nisha’s chestplate, causing it to fall open. She threw it off without a second look, grinning like a wild cat, and charged at him with what looked like a killing intent.

It ended with Jack flat on his back, with her heel on his throat, looking up at her like a man seeing the sun for the first time. Rhys patted himself on the back.

Rhys observed them over the next few weeks, just to be certain. He expected tumult. He expected a lot of false starts, a lot of on and off, the usual nonsense of two arrogant, unpleasant people caught in the throes of romance. He expected at least one drunk, messy fight in the small hours of the morning, to hear their voices raised and ringing off of the marble courtyard. But they didn’t. Nisha and Jack fell into a rhythm only they could hear.

It was always nice to see one of his pairings fit together like broken pieces of pottery. It made Rhys’ cynical little heart swell almost a half-size to see it happen. It made his considerably healthier ego swell to monstrous heights.

* * *

With Jack safely taken care of—and after a few weeks’ observation, Rhys felt confident Jack was in good hands—Rhys was free to relax and turn his attentions onto the other Titan.

The air in Moxxi’s garden was sweet as honey. The trees above turned the daylight into a gilded pink and green that fell in streams from between the blooms and leaves. Insects flicked between flowers like jewelled projectiles, filling the air with their humming. Birds sang from the canopy, their flight the sound of a whispered secret, their bodies blurring between the branches.

The scrying pool sat in the centre of the garden like a fat blue tourmaline set in the crown of the landscape, surrounded by a blanket of soft violets, bird cherry, and cornflower.

Technically, Rhys could scry through any still pool borne of natural water from the mountain’s river, but he preferred to use Moxxi’s, where he could lie in the grass and watch his subjects with his head pillowed in his arms, and the golden sun warming his skin. More than one person has flung the term ‘hedonist’ at Rhys, as if that were something he should’ve been ashamed of.

Rhys couldn’t decide if Tim was mysterious. Unlike with Jack, who did truly come across as Titanic in personality, in voice, in gesture, in almost every way except in body, Tim sank into the background. Perhaps because of Jack.

Part of him, Rhys was a little ashamed to admit to himself, was tempted to just throw someone nice and attractive in Tim’s path and call it a day. After all the fretting and care he’d taken over Jack’s match, he felt drained.

Rhys felt he deserved a few days off, spent at the finest spas in the mortal world. But he couldn’t, in good consciousness, take his much needed rest while Tim remained unattached.

There were options. Rhys could make it simple, find someone kind and good looking and hope for the best. Tim, like his brother, did not seem to be a terribly complicated individual. Although, unlike his brother, he had not yet invited anyone to join him in his personal quarters.

With birdsong and the humming of jewelled insects in the air, Rhys lay himself down beside the scrying pool with a sigh. He spread his robes smoothly around his legs, posing as if he expected to be observed, admired, and perhaps painted. Once settled, he called upon the spirits to show him the second son of Hyperion.

Rhys knew that Tim spent time on the training fields with his brother, although he seldom sparred. Instead, he would take a place among the stands and observe the others.

Rhys watched him for a while, before turning his attention to those fighting. Did it seem as if anyone was trying to show off? Had Brick put a little extra oomf into the punch he’d thrown at Athena's head? Had Zer0 spun his sword in a showy, but ultimately pointless display? Perhaps Axton had stripped his tunic in an attempt to entice?

No, Rhys decided. No one tried to fluff out their colourful plumage under Tim’s observation. They fought each other, and nothing more.

Rhys sighed. He resumed watching his target.

It didn’t feel right to hold Tim in contrast to his brother, as if he existed in the negative space of Jack’s life, but Rhys found it hard to avoid. Tim was stillness where Jack was movement. Without his brother’s shadow to hide in, Tim sat alone under the crystal blue sky, his chin in his hand, watching other people fight without a flicker of expression on his face.

 _Boring_. Tim was boring where Jack was excitement.

Rhys frowned. That would not do at all, because there were very few Olympians who would want to partner with someone who couldn’t excite them. They, all of them—and this included Rhys—wanted to live like a pack of kittens in a basket filled with glitter under a strobing light. They wanted intensity, and drama.

Rhys had no trouble setting Jack up with one of them because Jack _glittered_. Tim might’ve been shiny, but he was shiny the way a smooth stone in a riverbed was shiny. He might’ve been pretty enough to look at, but no one was going to bend over to pick him up.

He had few friends (Jack had so many admirers, it was hard to see him through the crowd, sometimes), which meant Rhys would have a difficult time collecting information the old fashioned way.

What a shame. Rhys rolled over onto his back, stretching his arms above his head, arching his neck. He would just have to lie in the unearthly opulence of the garden, observe Tim, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It starts kind of slow, gang. Even for me. The good news is is that the story is complete and all I have to do is post it one chapter at a time. Every Monday. For the next seven weeks. :^)
> 
> Sometimes I post stuff on tumblr that I don't post on AO3 so check it out if you want: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter Two: The Secret Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After giving it a great deal of consideration, the God of Romance selects who he believes will be the ideal partner for the second son of Hyperion. 
> 
> And then he goofs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gang, I want to tell you again: this is a slow burn with some world building. If you'd prefer to wait until next week to read the update when these two actually meet, I would not blame you one bit. 
> 
> If you're cool with waiting: read on, won't you?

Tim ran sword drills by himself. He took meals at irregular times, by himself. He explored the gods’ city of Olympus, treading softly on grass and marble alike, as a cat might when exploring a den of wolves. He spent time examining the statues, tapestries, paintings that littered the city’s archives and public parks. He read the plaques, each and every time, the way visitors to a new city would when they visited important buildings.

Tim was very dull. Whatever strange spark Rhys had thought he’d felt before must’ve surely been a fluke.

Rhys flicked his fingers across the still water and called a new image forth. He’d been turning over possibilities for a while. While watching Tim slowly and methodically make his way through Olympus’ boring history, Rhys made his final decision.

Reflected in the pool was not Rhys’ own face, but rather the scarred face of the goddess of artificers, Olympus’ tinker and inventor, Janey of the Mountain Springs. Janey would be a good fit. She was kind to everyone, patient and generous without suffering disadvantages to her own well-being. She could be what Tim needed.

Tim could be what she needed, too. A powerful warrior. As stable and strong as a well-made chair.

Rhys made arrangements.

* * *

Janey met with Tim one morning before breakfast, when they were both on their way to the river. Tim had received word that the fish that swam in the river had scales that flashed like rainbows in the light, but they only swam at sunrise.

Tim had heard this because Rhys had spread the word. It was a bit of a gambit, but not much of one. His fellow Olympians loved beauty, but they loved sleeping until mid-morning far more. Except for Janey, who enjoyed fishing in the river for her breakfast. And except for Tim, who was boring enough to think standing in an ice cold river with a pole in his hand at the dawning hour of the day was a good way to spend his time.

They met at the gates and set out together, chatting amicably, and Rhys nearly purred. Watching the Titan fall into his trap almost made the hell’s hour he was forced to stay awake for worth it.

Their relationship progressed from there. It took some time, which worried Rhys, although he tried to resist. If this were Jack and Nisha—or any of the others, really—Rhys’ might’ve been concerned that someone else would catch the scent of potential drama in the air and decide to throw their hat into the ring. Nothing quite like the complications of a love triangle to get Olympian blood pumping.

Janey’s scarred skin, the result of some ancient battle, and her peculiar sphere of influence made her something of an outsider among the beauties that roamed their streets. She was unglamorous, although Rhys would hesitate to call her plain.

In truth, Rhys had always been fond of Janey, and not just because she’d designed his mechanical arm. She had been kind to Rhys, even at the very start, when he was nothing more than a former muse who’d received the promotion everyone yearned for. Before he had earned his place in the pantheon.

Rhys grew bored after the fifth day in a row of watching his charges bond over their favourite gear, or how they liked to prepare and cook their fish, or which bait was the best, or whatever. Most of the time, they stood side-by-side up to their knees in the icy river, exchanging almost no words. It nearly put Rhys to sleep.

On the sixth day, Rhys decided his job was going to get any better by obsessive observation. Waking up early was a pain, and six days in a row was too many to spend away from his friends, from the excitement outside of the garden walls. He stopped watching them through the pool, and merely kept an eye on them, same as anyone else could.

* * *

Almost two weeks later, Janey sent a request for a private meeting. Rhys breathed out a long sigh of relief. Finally. No doubt she was coming to ask him to bless her union. He sent her a reply, telling her to see him in his private chambers.

Janey arrived early, her soot-grey robes dancing around her feet as she hurried inside Rhys’ quarters. Her face was glowing. More than that, Rhys was pleased to see, her chest had started to bud.

It would be a difficult thing to explain to anyone who could not see on the same wavelength as Rhys. Every god and goddess had special vision over their chosen spheres.

Ice-veined Maya, Goddess of the Sea, could see the trails of ships across the waves, days and sometimes even years before they would actually cross the sea. She could see the blue flame that would crackle over the masts of warships that marked them for greatness, for true glory.

The god from foreign shores, Zer0, could see the spirits of those about to cross over to the afterlife. It was said that his own people discovered a place of shadow and wind, where the lost and damned roamed without purpose and without hope.

Hammerlock, the sun bright God of the Wild, could see the path of another hunter’s game, but never his own. That would be unsportsmanlike, he’d confided to Rhys.

Vaughn had once told Rhys that he would lose five gold by the time the sun set. Rhys lost exactly that, in a dice game against Yvette.

Mischievous Fiona could see lies when they fell from people’s mouths. She told Rhys they looked like small demons, and their colours changed depending on the speaker’s intent.

And Rhys could see the bloom of true love. It was different for each person, mortal or immortal, but it grew in the same place for everyone, and everyone could blossom.

Janey’s was a grey-red bundle in the centre of her chest, casting sparks like small rubies with each breath she took.

Janey accepted the offered seat beside Rhys, kicking her robes out of the way. “I hope you’re doing well, Rhys. I’ve seen you around and— I’m sorry,” she burst out as he filled her cup with wine. “I know we have to have small talk and catch up on our lives, but I’m too excited. You’ll never believe what’s happened to me, Rhys.”

Rhys tried to smother his smirk. “I think I might. But why don’t you tell me?”

Her smile widened. The thing growing in her chest gave a shudder. “I’m in love, Rhys! I want to get married!”

Rhys blinked, taken aback. “Already?”

“I know it’s sudden,” she said, not looking the least bit sheepish. “But I can’t help it. _We_ can’t help it. You must think I’m out of my tree.” She laughed, and Rhys laughed along with her, a little nervously.

“I guess I’m surprised. But I’m happy if you’re happy.”

“I am,” she said. “We’ve talked it over. We want to get married soon, before the end of the year.”

Rhys froze with a piece of fruit half-way to his open mouth. “Oh. Wow. That is…”

“I know. I can’t bear to wait any longer, Rhys. Frankly, I’m surprised I can wait even that long. I mean, I’ve been admiring her from afar for years. I didn’t even realise she’d felt the same way until we actually started talking…”

Rhys lowered his glass slowly. “She?” he repeated.

“Oh, shit.” Janey laughed again. She rubbed at the scarred flesh under her eye. “Shit. I should’ve mentioned. I’m marrying Athena. Crazy, right?”

* * *

Athena the taciturn. Athena the brave. Athena the cruel. There were many Olympians who could claim ownership over the sphere of war, but few earned their stripes quite like Athena. She was older than most, contemporaries with Lilith herself, and said to have fought in the original war that cleaved heaven and earth.

Athena the cunning. Athena the bloody. Athena, most recently, crowned as the slayer of the mighty Atlas. Rhys’ mind reeled.

“How did it happen?” he asked weakly.

“We were introduced through a friend,” Janey said. Her cheeks were flushed with good wine and better spirits. “I guess he and Athena had been training together for quite some time. One day I went out to see him fight and I saw her, and he asked if we knew each other…”

Rhys’ stomach sank like a stone down a deep well. “Your friend… You mean Tim?”

“That’s right.” Janey leaned over, helping herself to the cheese and bread plate. “Sweet kid. Kind of quiet. You know ‘im?”

* * *

Rhys wanted to fight it, but what could he do? He of all people knew the futility of trying to thwart true love. Janey’s heart did not lie, and the bud was set to burst at any moment. He held out on the slim chance that perhaps Athena’s chest would be barren, but his hopes were quickly dashed.

Athena’s expression was severe, and her chest was in full bloom. A collection of small flowers that resembled a hydrangea, petals the rich colour of unspilled blood, streaked with what looked like ash, trembled with each breath.

Upon seeing the truth, Rhys knew he couldn’t stop this. As soon as he saw Athena’s heart, he knew he didn’t even want to.

Rhys gave them his blessing, assured them both that their feelings were true. They invited him to the wedding.

* * *

It was not the first time Rhys had failed at match-making. His entire sphere of influence could be as temperamental as the weather from the ocean, and all of Rhys’ subjects were nothing more than sailors hoping for clear skies.

As awful as Vasquez’s work was, Rhys couldn’t deny he envied him, now and then. Rhys’ techniques were finicky, involved, and never guaranteed to sow results. Hugo’s arrows were decisive; a pulled string and an impact in the chest. Anyone struck was at the mercy of his influence, if only for a short amount of time. It must’ve felt nice.

Rhys returned to Moxxi’s garden the very same night he met with Janey and her fiancée. He flopped down on the pillow-soft flower bed beside the pool, sending up a spray of white pollen and disturbing a few crystalline bees. He ignored their complaints as he drew his fingers across the still surface of the water, pulling up the current vision of the wayward Titan.

Tim appeared to be scaling down the slope of the mountain, crossing the terrain with the grace that must’ve served him well on the battlefield.

Rhys could at least admire the way Tim’s light armour looked on his form, his lovely indigo cloak hanging over his shoulders. How nice it was to see his muscled calves and thighs from under his tunic as he clambered over and around boulders. He was armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, and a short, sharp blade at his boot. The sort of thing a hunter might use to open a throat, or separate skin from muscle. Rhys winced in disgust.

Rhys watched Tim’s progress down Olympus for as long as he could. The vision began to blur and waver as soon as Tim made his way across the liminal space between their realm and the mortals’.

There were no prayers for the gods to make; they could only send hopes and wishes to an uncaring, unseeing sky. Rhys did that now, wishing the pool might keep Tim in its clear lens for a few miles longer, but it was no use. The all-seeing eyes of Moxxi’s scrying pool always blinked when faced with the light of the mortal world.

Rhys flopped over onto his back, and spread his arms out on either side.

“Why would he want to explore the mortal realm?” he asked the air.

A bird posed a theory, but she spoke too quickly for Rhys to follow. Her mate picked up the tune and soon they were both spinning a tale, their voices melding together, speaking not only over but under and around each other. Rhys listened for a while, although he could barely understand them.

“Hunting? Is he hunting?” Rhys tried.

The iridescent bees flashed above his head, their tiny bodies almost white in the silver light of the moon. They did not share any theories. They had many complaints.

“Hunting,” Rhys decided. “He’s probably hunting. I wonder if that’s something he enjoys. I could ask Janey. Maybe she knows something.”

The birds ignored him. Another couple joined in with their story, and they had abandoned Tim entirely, weaving a tale about the last hunter on earth.

“Thanks for all your help,” he said drily, but it was a wasted effort. Birds didn’t appreciate irony.

Rhys needed new inspiration. More than that, he needed something to cheer him up. He climbed to his feet.

Every god has a temple. There are the ones the mortals build for them, of course, but those aren’t really for the gods themselves. The ones built by mortal hands inside mortal cities are more for mortal gain. Places in the busy forums for people to gather, to set-up marketplaces, exchange information, spread the good word.

In the bad old days, the Olympians had regarded those temples as an insult. They wanted devotion, and they didn’t want to share it with their fellow Olympians. Back then, mortals would have to design their religious quarters to an exacting degree, to be cautious of putting the temple of, say, Nisha too close to the temple of Lilith, lest they incur the wrath from both goddesses.

It proved to be too difficult for mortals, and it irritated them, which in turn made them less inclined to worship. The solution proposed by Roland the Wise was really quite elegant. Let the mortals build what they wished, where they wished, he declared. Every god would have one temple to themselves entirely. It could be anywhere, and it could be theirs alone, and only the truly faithful could find it for worship and to bring gifts.

Everyone did it differently. Lilith’s temple was at the base of dormant, wide-mouthed volcano, nestled among tall trees with big, waxy leaves. The air around Lilith’s temple was heavy with water, and always, always hot. Its path would take pilgrims over wide chasms, bridged with damp rope and wood, heavy with moss, stretched above a white-frothed river that roared from a mouth lined with jagged teeth. Lilith enjoyed her privacy.

Maya’s temple was a mirage. Its location shifted in the heat, always just glimpsed by starving and thirsty sailors as they attempted to cross the seven seas. It looked like a castle built from piled sand, decorated with spiny shells. It pierced the eastern horizon, only ever the east. Sailors could set course but it would take days, and it would never seem any closer until it was right on top of you.

Moxxi kept her temple where her mortal worshipers had built it, in the capital city. Hers was a gaudy building at the mouth of the capital’s red district, down the street from the marriage chapels.

Rhys’ temple was a day’s travel from the heart of the empire, and the path that lead into the verdant forest where his followers made their pilgrimage was large enough to admit carriages. Rhys’ faithful only had to contend with a rough dirt road and the occasional turned ankle. He liked company.

More than that, he liked presents.

Everyone came to Rhys’ temple, sooner or later. Locals and tourists alike would make the trip at least once in their lives to see the beautiful cave-like building. Rhys’ temple was built from a soft, white stone that glittered in what sunlight could fall through the canopy. The courtyard was littered with fallen petals and leaves. Large, blooming branches slumped over the smooth, white walls.

The place almost looked abandoned, left to the mercies of nature. The golden opulence within, the painted frescos, the mosaic floors, the stone that seemed like nothing more than the froth of the ocean waves, somehow petrified and preserved for Rhys’ pleasure, said otherwise.

Rhys strode inside of what might as well have been his second home under a cloak of fog and rain. His most loyal followers had lit candles for his prophesized arrival (prophesized since that morning). Flames sent shadows shivering over his statue’s robes.

Rhys wondered if other gods found the statues at the heart of their temples to be embarrassing. Rhys never did. He liked the way he looked, twelve feet tall and carved from the same soft, glittering stone he’d designed his temple out of. The wind and rain would not touch his stone skin. His features looked as pleasing as they had the first day they were carved.

Satisfied he was alone, Rhys hung his cloak outside and approached the offerings left at his altar. Everyone knew the best way to curry the magpie-like God of Romance’s favour was to lavish him with gifts—the shinier, the better. Golden caskets, hand-painted wooden boxes, velvet sacks, and bundles of flowers all sat at his statue’s feet. Rhys sat down on the steps and began working through the pile.

It was a good haul. Strings of sea glass beads and golden rope hung heavy on Rhys’ long, delicate neck, clattering together every time he bowed to pick something else up. Bangles of stone and precious metals sat heavy on his slim wrists and added weight to his ankles. Rings of brass set with simple, solid stones sat side by side with white-golden bands, glittering with precious gems. The trip back to Olympus would be the closest Rhys would ever come to exercise.

Rhys read every note that accompanied his gifts with care. He committed each name to memory, extending his influence to send his good fortune, bestowing blessings on their unions and the unions of their friends and families.

Once the jewellery was finished with, Rhys moved onto the flowers. The god of romance taste ran to the finer, shinier things in life, but everyone knew he had a weakness for flowers. This was the reason a hopeful admirer might gift a bouquet to their object of affection, and why any wedding was fit to bursting with arrangements, as though it might attract the god’s attention and bring Rhys’ blessing onto their union. They were by far the easiest offerings his followers could leave, and they brought fresh ones every day.

No one knew what his favourite might be, although his more devoted priests and priestesses liked to argue on the subject. The common belief was that he preferred narcissus, which Rhys found a little offensive, even if they weren’t entirely wrong. Rhys plucked up a few that had been left for him that morning and began to braid them into a circlet.

A bouquet of large, white and pink blooms wrapped with a simple black ribbon caught his eye.

Rhys’ hands paused mid-weave. That was odd. Black wasn’t a colour often brought into his temple. It was too dour and too close to the hearts of more fierce Olympians to make itself at home among the soft colours of Rhys’ altar. He picked it up carefully. The scent hit him immediately, sweet, complex, and unfamiliar.

They were not flowers he recognized. Simple, thin petals reaching out from a green heart, supported by sharp leaves. Could they have come from foreign shores? Perhaps some merchant was looking to win Rhys’ favour. Rhys brought the bundle close to his face and inhaled the rich scent.

Something stiff and distinctly unlike petals brushed his nose. Rhys pulled the bouquet away, his brow furrowing. Nestled in the dense collection of flowers was a small paper scroll. He set the flowers aside and unrolled it quickly, assuming it to be the name of the merchant or trader, along with their desired blessing.

It wasn’t. It was a poem.

That was odd, but not unheard of. Some people—poets, mostly—worked under the assumption that Rhys enjoyed poetry as much as he enjoyed material objects. They were mistaken, of course, but Rhys wasn’t vindictive enough to cast curses on them for trying. Most of the time.

It was a love poem, which came as no surprise. What did, however, was that it was addressed to Rhys.

Rhys sank down onto the dais. No one had ever written poetry for Rhys. _About_ Rhys, or rather, about his godliness and the divine grace and the beauty of true love, certainly. People sang his praises as a matter of course. But this didn’t read like a mortal waxing philosophic about his untender mercies.

This was written as if Rhys were the subject being wooed.

* * *

Rhys was no literary critic. He couldn’t tell if the poem was well-written. The rhyming scheme, if there was one, seemed obscure. In the few poems Rhys had bothered to read, he found the ones with rhyming couplets to be the most enjoyable. Especially the amusing ones about anatomy and pastoral sex metaphores.

This poem—Rhys’ poem—wasn’t like that. It described Rhys in a moment, each line like the brushstroke of a painting. Rhys reclining on a settee under the torchlight in the public courtyard, a jug of wine close to his jewelled mechanical hand, his other hand reaching for the plate of bread and hard cheeses. Laughing at something a friend had said. The poem took an entire stanza to describe Rhys’ smile.

Rhys read it, and reread it.

It must’ve been from an Olympian. The scene was too specific. The description of Rhys reclining at a party would not be the first thing to leap to a mortal’s mind when they contemplated Rhys’ divine beauty. But what sort of Olympian would go to his temple and leave the flowers and poem like an offering? Olympians seldom visited each other’s temples, and they certainly never left each other gifts. That felt too humble, too… shy for their kind.

Rhys ruminated on the possibilities as he made his way towards the muses’ library in Olympus.

From the outside, the muses’ library appeared as a modest building, but something about all the books pressed in such close quarters had done something strange to the physical dimensions within. Bookshelves lined the circular room, stretching far up to the dim ceiling, where even the diligent sunlight couldn’t find purchase. The glare of the white sun outside struggled in through fogged windows and tempered glass, until it collapsed into long lines on the floor and walls.

When Rhys still worked as a muse, he found the place to be incredibly dull. As an Olympian, crossing the threshold between within and without always left him feeling a little unsettled. The sight of the walls stretching up to the shadowed ceiling like arms raised towards the high heavens made him feel nauseated in a way it never used to.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that Rhys?” a cheerful voice called out.

Rhys perked up. “Ellie!”

The muse of beauty, tragedy, and romance walked across the tiled floor on light feet, her blush-coloured robe tickling her ankles. Rhys beamed at her, swooped down and kissed her one each rosy cheek.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

She slapped him on the back. “You’re lookin’ as fine as ever. Love the flower. Is it jasmine?” She leaned forward, flicking her fingers against the edge of one white petal.

Rhys touched his fingers to the flower tucked behind his ear. “Is it? I found it in my temple. I didn’t recognize it.”

“You ought to. Jasmine’s from one of the countries out across the sea,” she said.

“Why is that something I ought to know?”

Ellie gave him an old look. “Jasmine symbolises love, dummy. Seriously, which god are you supposed to be again?”

Rhys’ heart did something curious at Ellie’s words. Its usual steady rhythm became disturbed, each beat arriving too close together.

“You okay?” she asked.

Rhys dropped the hand he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding to his chest. “Yeah, I’m fine. Anyway,” he went on, voice regaining its strength. “A lot of flowers symbolize love. I can’t be expected to know each and every one. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he added defensively as Ellie shook her head.

“Right.” She linked her arm through his. “What brings you back to your old stomping grounds? Don’t tell me you’re here on business for momma.”

She lead him from the library out to the back courtyard, where an amphitheatre sat on the high lip of a cliff. They took their seats in the carved stands while Rhys explained what he’d found left at the base of his statue's feet.

“You think one of us wrote you a poem?” she asked.

Was it his imagination, or was she trying to hide a smile?

“I do,” he answered, frowning. “The poem seems too specific. It’s so detailed. They must’ve seen me.” He looked down at it again, his gaze catching on a description of the way the torchlight had brought out strands of precious gold in his walnut hair. He looked up to find Ellie biting her lower lip. His eyes narrowed. “Do you know anything about this, Ellie?”

She chewed on her pink lip for a moment longer. Finally, she smiled. “I might.”

“I knew it!” A few crows, known for their criticism  of the theatre, took flight at the sound of Rhys’ voice. “Someone came to you for inspiration, didn’t they? Tell me who it was!”

Ellie looked at Rhys. She put her hands on her wide hips.

“Please?” he added.

She blew out a breath. “Look, hon, I might know a thing or two about your admirer. But they asked me to keep quiet about the whole thing.”

“So, it is one of us?” Rhys clutched the poem close.

“Mortals can call on me too,” she reminded him, but Rhys knew a red herring when he heard one.

“Please, tell me. I just need a name,” he said. Ellie only shook her head.

“Sorry, puddin’. No can do. They asked me to keep quiet and gave some real nice honey liquor for the trouble.”

“I can get you honey liquor,” Rhys said eagerly. “I can get you plum brandy, strawberry wine. I could even get you that foreign stuff with the anise. Whatever you like.”

“What I like is keeping my word.” Ellie patted Rhys’ sagging shoulder companionably. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that good things come to those who wait? You just have to be patient, sweet stuff. No admirer would stay secret for long. They’ll reveal themselves to you when they’re good and ready.”

“What about when _I’m_ ready?” Rhys grumbled. Ellie laughed.

“Be cool, honey bunch. You’ve got something good coming your way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Rhys find out the identity of his secret admirer??? Will Tim ever catch a rainbow fish at dawn??? Will these two idiots ever actually meet??? Stay tuned to find out the answer to one of these questions... next week.


	3. Chapter Three: The Second Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another round of careful observation, Rhys assigns to Tim a second suitor: the God of the Hunt and Game, Hammerlock. After that fails, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I've added an additional scene! I felt like the chapter as originally posted was too short and inconsequential, so I've added something of a little more substance. The new last scene was originally going to be the first scene of chapter four, but chapter four's already got plenty of material and it didn't really need it. 
> 
> If you've already read this when I first hit publish this morning (09/04/17), then welcome back, there's a new scene. Hooray!

Apparent secret admirer aside, Rhys still had a job to do. He continued to observe Tim in secret through the scrying pool, but he learned very little.

Tim had taken to leaving Olympus every day, with a bow slung to his back and a hunter’s knife on in his boot. Now and then Athena and Janey would join him, but he was alone more often than not. He would descend past the barrier into the mortal forests below and Rhys would lose sight of him.

On occasion, Rhys felt patient enough to wait for Tim to resurface, but it never brought him any useful knowledge. Tim would sometimes return with a hart or a boar slung over his shoulders, but often he would only return empty handed.

So. He was a hunter, but perhaps not a very good one.

Rhys sighed heavily, his breath stirring the waters. He wondered why Tim would keep up the pursuit every day if he wasn’t very good at it. That sort of dedication was unheard of among Olympians. They were either good at something, or they didn't try. Perhaps the hunting trips were only an excuse to descend to the mortal world. Perhaps a mortal had caught his eye.

Rhys scowled. _That_ would be annoying. Rhys was never at his most effective when he was forced to split a couple up, although he had done so before.

Rhys skimmed through his mental list of eligible suitors. Rhys felt he had been on the right track with someone kinder, and less excitable than the core Olympians. Someone with a backbone, someone who was ready to settle down. Someone like…

The spinning wheel in Rhys’ imagination slowed to a crawl, until it came up with the face of the God of Big Game Hunting and Sunlight, Alistair Hammerlock.

Rhys gave it a moment’s consideration. He posited the option to a small, turquoise humming bird hovering over a near-by flower bush. The bird’s response was far too long and quick for Rhys to follow, but it seemed supportive. The bees, who were less irritated on this day, if only because they had liked Rhys’ jasmine, hummed something non-committal.

“Fine,” Rhys said. “Hammerlock it is.”

* * *

Once again, Rhys had no difficulty in arranging the meeting between Tim and his new potential partner. Hammerlock was always searching for a hunting partner, a new ear to fill with tales of his various exploits. Carefully crafted rumours floated from Olympian to Olympian about the second son of Hyperion and his rather unimpressive attempts at pursuing the gentlemen’s sport. The only thing Hammerlock enjoyed more than a new friend was a new friend who could use some instruction.

 “This time, I won’t fail,” Rhys said as he drew one knee up under his chin. The sapphire and ivory coloured finch perched in the willow branch above his head said nothing.

“There’s no reason for it to fail,” Rhys went on, undeterred. “Hammerlock is reliable and he can be kind without being a pushover.”

The finch looked down at Rhys. A few bees bumped into each other on their way to an open blossom, sniggering as they passed his ear.

Rhys frowned. “Alright, maybe Hammerlock can be a little… too single-minded about his sphere of influence, but that isn’t a bad thing. Maybe Tim is the sort of person who finds that kind of dedication attractive in a person…”

The finch shook out his plumage and took flight. Rhys could hear the bees still laughing, the sound muffled by the flowers they’d buried themselves in.

“Oh, shut up,” he told them.

He leaned over the pool, watching as the two men descended one of Olympus’ trickier slopes. No doubt decided upon at Hammerlock’s enthusiastic recommendation.

Rhys hid a yawn behind his hand. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to spend many more early mornings watching the dullest Titan in the realms.

Tim wasn’t talking much, but he was smiling as Hammerlock filled the air, no doubt sharing his usual boasts about killing chimeras, dragons, the Namean lion, and so on. At one point, Hammerlock stopped their trip to gesture expansively with both hands, sketching a monster of massive girth as best he could. The sunlight glinted attractively off of his mechanical arm. He stood with his flesh leg braced on a rock, looking like a pantheon of one, coming to preach to the mortals.

Tim seemed to be listening intently. He’d worked up a bit of a sweat, and the shine of it did interesting things to his neck and chest. Rhys stared at him, at his smiling face.

“He’s got a nice smile, at least,” he said. The finch sang an agreement from high in the canopy.

Tim laughed when Hammerlock was finished. He said something that made Hammerlock beam. Rhys felt good about this. This time it would work.

* * *

Hammerlock and Tim went out together several times a week, every week, for nearly a month, and things seemed to be progressing well. Hammerlock hadn’t made any romantic overtures yet, in Rhys’ very expert opinion, but he was being attentive, friendly, and charming. Or as charming as he ever got (again, in Rhys’ expert opinion). Tim seemed pleased to have the company, although he didn’t try to move things beyond platonic either. This was frustrating to observe, but Rhys told himself and all the birds and the bees in their garden that he just had to be patient.

Still. During the third week of observation, Rhys began to feel the cracks in his patience. How could someone who resembled the imitable Jack in so many ways be so frustratingly different? Jack had bedded Nisha (or vice versa) within hours of meeting her. By the second week, they had stopped seeing other people (unless it was together, or so the rumours went).

Rhys knew he shouldn’t have, but by the fourth week the precious resource of his patience ran out. He gave Hammerlock and Tim a cursory look-in on the first day of the fourth week, only to find that nothing had changed between them. They still walked with a respectful, platonic distance between them. They still talked without exchanging significant, longing looks. They were friends, and if anything was brewing beneath the surface, it was far, far below. Rhys decided that his mornings were better spent luxuriating between his silken sheets, getting the beauty rest he so very much deserved.

He even found time to pay a visit to his temple, and felt pleased to discover another unusual offering had been left for him. Another bundle of flowers, their petals broad and white bursting out from a stark black centre. These, at least, he recognized. Anemones. Although he had never seen them in such a perfect condition, in such beautiful shades of white and soft pink, before. He drew his finger along the tips of a velvet-soft petal. If only he could sleep in a bed made from such material.

Once again, nestled in the centre, among the green stems, was a small scroll. With images of literal flower beds in his mind’s eye, Rhys plucked it free and unrolled it.

A moment later, his cheeks began to heat.

His secret admirer had selected an image of Rhys stepping into the mid-light of day, on what sounded like the morning after a celebration at Salvador’s. Like a sequel to the first poem. The poet’s words breathed life into the image, and Rhys could practically feel the headache he had gotten from a night’s worth of enthusiastic drinking.  They took care to mention that, despite Rhys’ rough appearance, he still looked lovely. The word 'luminous' found use.

Is this what he looked like from the outside? The poet described Rhys’ legs, his face, the lines at the corner of his eyes (Rhys pressed two fingers against them, feeling touched and self-conscious), the shine of his mechanical arm, like they’d been thinking about it for years.

Rhys spread the scroll out on the marble steps and read it again while he worked the anemones into the crown he’d been braiding. He tried to understand how the poem made him feel. Flattered, certainly, which of course made him happy. But weren’t love poems supposed to stir something in a person’s soul? Rhys had read many before, especially during his days as a muse, but he could not recall feeling much of anything for them. This was the first time he’d come close to expressing an emotion in response to something he’d read, but he could not say if it _stirred_ anything within him.

If he couldn’t tell for sure, then it probably didn’t. A soul-stirring would be hard to miss. He touched his left hand lightly to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

* * *

Not a week after Rhys received his latest poem and bouquet of anemones (which, despite his best attempts to keep them thriving, had already begun to wilt and shed), Hammerlock hailed him in the middle of the gods’ forum.

“Rhys! What a pleasant surprise it is to see you, my lad.” His voice boomed off the stones.

Rhys raised his hand in greeting as Hammerlock hustled towards him.

“Just the man I was hoping to see, in fact,” he went on in the same volume as before. Rhys suppressed a wince. “I require your assistance in some personal matters!”

Finally. “Always happy to be of service,” Rhys said. “Is there a union you’d like me to bless?”

Indeed, something had begun to sprout forth from Hammerlock’s barrel chest. It was hard to see, as the bronze and yellow petals blended quite naturally with Hammerlock’s hunting garments. (Robes? Were they robes? Rhys’ knowledge of fashion always fell short when it came to armour and sporting gear.)

“Perhaps it is a bit premature,” Hammerlock began, folding his arms behind his back in what may have been a bashful gesture. “But I believe I have met someone I am… rather fond of.”

Rhys had to bite his lip to keep the smug smile off of his face. “Do tell.”

“He is an interesting man. Perhaps not the usual selection for an Olympian of decent breeding, such as myself, but I have a good premonition in my heart about our future together. Not that I would ever assume my own heart feelings would be an indicator of good tiding,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say never,” Rhys said, laying on the salesman's charm with ease. “Your heart is more than just a muscle, after all.”

Rhys didn’t know if there was any basis for that statement, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was if Hammerlock believed it. Rhys bestowed a benevolent smile upon him.

“May I ask who the lucky gentleman is?”

“Of course.” Hammerlock drew himself up, as if he were preparing to deliver a speech. “His name is Mister Torgue. He is a demi-god and artificer who creates delightful weapons for our warriors. His specialty is explosions. I believe… It is early, but I believe we will make each other quite happy.”

* * *

Rhys made a bee-line for the artificers district as soon as he was finished with Hammerlock, internally singing out a litany of curses. He found the absurdly named Mister Torgue in the weapons smithy. He was dressed the way they all dressed in this part of Olympus, in workman-like leather pants and linen tunics, all tanned and dyed in dark colours to better hide the sweat, soot, and occasional blood.

Mister Torgue looked up in surprise when he saw Rhys. “Well! What brings the god of romance and heartache to my neck of the woods?”

Gods beside him, Mister Torgue’s voice was even louder than Hammerlock’s. Maybe, a distant part of Rhys’ mind supplied, they _would_ make a decent pair.

Rhys’ eyes fell on the small bud forming in the centre of Mister Torgue’s considerable chest, something that was probably the size of Rhys’ fist but looked as small as a mouse. Tan coloured petals, pulsing with faint bronze light, wrapped tightly together. Ready to burst.

“Oh, just. I heard the good news,” Rhys said with a numb smile. “Had to see it for myself.”

* * *

Zero for two! This was unprecedented. Rhys had failed on attempts to set couples up in the past, no doubt, but never before had he failed twice—in a row!—to set up one person with their soulmate.

Most frustrating of all was that, while Rhys certainly felt annoyed to see his second attempt miss its mark, he could not find it in himself to feel _bad_ about it. Regardless of his intentions, Hammerlock and Mister Torgue, two people Rhys had not imagined finding true love with anyone, were now finding it with each other. He knew that this union, the second he'd blessed in as many months, would bring additional regard and esteem to his temples.

And, frankly, it just felt good to see people find love. He really did enjoy this job.

Rhys lay on his back and stared up at the cracks of night sky visible through the waving branches. A few birds sang out their laughter from the branches, and more than a few bees sniggered at him from the flowers. He ignored them all.

Rhys loved this job. If he didn’t complete this mission, he might lose it.

Worse, he might lose it to _Vasquez_. Safe from the eyes of anyone who might judge him, Rhys pulled an ugly face.

Vasquez, who’d been not-so-secretly pushing to have his and Rhys’ roles consolidated into one position that, of course, only he was qualified to fill. He’d been trying to make Rhys redundant since Rhys got his promotion to godhood.

Rhys groaned and dramatically rolled over onto his belly. He drew his fingers through the crystal waters, skimming the still surface.

Before he gave it any real consideration, the pool was rippling and Timothy’s image appeared in its surface. He was lying in his bed, far away from the sound and noise of the eternal celebrations out in Olympus’ many rooms. The gods and goddesses could always find a reason for revelry. As soon as the sun went down, they kicked up their feet, dug out jugs of wine, and made their midnight meal into a celebration. On any other night, Rhys would have joined them.

Had he ever seen Tim at any of these meals in recent weeks? He must have, once or twice at least. Jack used to attend them regularly. As far as Rhys knew, he still did. But whenever Rhys imagined Tim seated around a table, all he could picture was Jack holding court like a king. Tim must’ve been there, lurking in his brother’s shadow.

Did Tim ever scan the room? Did he ever search for a special someone’s gaze? When he lay in his bed at night—as he did at that particular moment—did he think of anyone?

“Why won’t you just fall in love?” Rhys skimmed his fingers across the water. “I sent you two perfectly good partners. Why didn’t you take advantage? Do you know how many people I’ve worked this hard for?”

Tim rose to a seated position. He ran his hand through his hair, and picked up a scrap of paper from the ground. He looked at it for a moment, his head bowed, concealing his face from the pool’s heavenly gaze. Rhys watched as Tim’s shoulders moved in what must’ve been a great sigh. He pushed himself onto his feet, walking through curls of paper that littered the floor, drifting down from a worn writing desk.

Rhys’ brow furrowed when he caught sight of the expression on Tim’s face. “Are you thinking of someone right now?”

Tim touched his fingers to the lip of an empty vase. His face held an expression of beautiful melancholy. Rhys sat up straighter. He knew that look well. As the god of romance and true love, he saw it often.

“Are you telling me that you _are_ in love with someone _already_?” Rhys demanded, his face flushing.

Tim shouldered on a travelling cloak and picked up his long bow from the wall and slung a quiver of arrows around his shoulders. He pulled on his boots, sheathed a dagger onto his thigh.

“Is it a mortal?” Rhys’ voice startled a few sparrows from their nightly rest.

Of course, Tim made no reply. Ignorant of Rhys’ growing anger, he cast one last look to his writing desk before slipping from his room.

“Dammit!” Rhys smacked the water with his mechanical hand, sending the image of Tim into a swirl of shapeless colour. “If it’s been a mortal this whole time…”

If it was a mortal, not only did it mean that Rhys had been wasting his time, it meant that he stood to truly and honestly fail this mission. Because if it were a mortal, that meant that Tim’s loyalty was not where it should be.

Olympians meddled in mortal affairs all the time. What if Brick, God of the Thunder that shakes the earth, decided he wanted to roll an avalanche down onto a mortal settlement that blasphemed against him? What if Lilith decided to puncture the earth and bring forth lava to destroy an enemy of one of her cherished countries? What if Tim’s beloved mortal possessed a bleeding heart, or what if they were a heretic? Rhys’ panic mounted. That could lead down a disastrous road, indeed.

When the water settled and the image reformed, Rhys saw that Tim was once again heading down the slope of Mount Olympus, as he’d been doing every day for the past several weeks. It was unusual to see him doing it at night, but Rhys had no consideration to spare. He bit back a growl of frustration.

No more waiting. If Tim had a mortal lover, Rhys needed to know. He scrambled to his feet, barely pausing to fluff his hair back into decent shape and readjust the hang of his robes, before he set off with a plan already formed in his mind. He would follow Tim at a distance, past the barrier between realms, and find out who, if anyone, he was intending to see. Simple.

Picking his way down the side of Olympus was not as easy as Rhys’ morning observations would have lead him to believe. The slope had appeared reasonable at first, but Rhys, who had never walked on anything but flat, stable, civilized roads in all his immortal life, struggled to keep his balance. Progress took him far longer than it should have, and he was quickly losing ground.

It didn’t help that the mountain was apparently covered in rocks. Not just large rocks, which could crop up and impede his progress, but small rocks that could sneak into his sandals, and medium rocks that could bounce painfully off his toes. Rhys kept his robes gripped tightly at his hip, desperate to keep the fabric from getting fouled by the dust and dirt, but the smooth material kept slipping from his fingers. Even though the sun had set and the air had seemed pleasantly chilled when Rhys had been safely surrounded by buildings and walls, Rhys could now feel himself working up a sweat. An actual _sweat_.

It was, in short, the hardest thing Rhys had ever done in his entire life. And possibly the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

The moonlight illuminated the path, and Rhys could just make out Tim ahead. Rhys could only see him by the flutter of his travelling cloak, the only movement for leagues around.

Twenty minutes into a journey that should have only taken him ten, the barrier between realms finally approached. Rhys’ skin prickled in the air charged with a sudden, strange dry heat. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead with a disgusted frown.

He’d never travelled this way through the barrier; on the ground and with his own two feet. Many of their kind wouldn’t, all of them preferring to travel through the skies. In their elemental forms, Olympians could slip through the barrier like water through a sieve.

The air shimmered and the stable earth had begun to sway like a dancer. Rhys swallowed a wave of nausea at the sight of the mountain rippling under his feet. He looked up at the sky and gasped out loud.

The sky had turned to shades of rich violet and deep blue, rings of light haloed each star, and the moon appeared as luminous as a second sun. He wondered if Aurelia, Goddess of Moonlight, knew what her sphere looked like in this strange, liminal space. It looked so close and so bright, Rhys felt certain that he might be able to touch it if he reached out. He stretched his arm above his head. Surely his fingers would brush against its feathery light. Surely he would feel the sky against his flesh the way a one feels the air after breaking through the surface of the water…

Rhys’ sandals slid on the ground, sending a cascade of pebbles bouncing down the slope. The sky wheeled as Rhys’ lost his balance, his feet slipping out from under him. He landed on his hip, throwing all his weight against his leg and felt the ground dig its teeth into his skin as he slid some ways down the mountain.

He groaned, blinking hard as spots danced in his vision. He rolled over, tried to push himself back up but his arms were shaking and his head felt strange. Darkness crept in from the sides of his eyes. He blinked again, trying to dispel it, but it only seemed to grow. Shadows were coming out from behind the boulders, swelling up from the pools of darkness on the ground, where the moonlight couldn’t touch. Rhys drew his robes around him, shivering.

This was silly. All he had to do was push through.

But he could no longer tell where the path was. The slope was his only guide, but he knew it was a treacherous one. There were sudden drops, sheared cliff-edges. Even a fall of a few feet could snap his ankle, and then where would he be?

Out here. Alone. With the darkness closing in. Rhys’ shivered more violently. He looked up at the sky, but the shadows could reach even there. It fell from between the stars like rain. In seconds, Rhys could no longer see a single thing.

A hand closed around his flesh arm and yanked him forward. Rhys screamed, and swung his mechanical arm out of animal instinct. He felt it connect to something solid yet soft, and heard someone grunt in pain, but he couldn’t see. The force pulled him forward again and Rhys nearly lost his footing. He thought he heard someone speaking, but the sound was too muffled for him to find meaning from the noise.

Was this a creature from the space in between? Were there things that could live in the barrier?

Panic clamped its cold jaws around Rhys’ chest. He tried to pull back, but the unseen force was stronger. He raised his mechanical arm once again, ready to land a fearsome blow against whatever creature had him in its grip, when he heard a sounds like fabric tearing, felt a blast of wind against his clammy face, and his ears popped.

He was outside, on the side of Mount Olympus. The moon and its light had returned. And the second son of Hyperion had Rhys’ arm in his grip.

“Rhys?” Tim looked stunned. “What are you doing here?”

Rhys stared at him, his mind desperately trying to work through the last few minutes of activity. The question felt like too much for him at that moment. Had he just gotten lost in the barrier?

Tim’s gaze flicked beyond Rhys’ shoulder. His jaw tightened. “Did you come alone?”

That, at least, was an easy one. “Yes.”

“You tried to cross the barrier _alone_?” Tim had quite an expressive face. Right now he was looking at Rhys like Rhys had just announced his intentions to douse himself with blood and take a swim with piranhas.

That didn’t sit well with Rhys. He jerked his arm out of Tim’s grip.

“Yes. Why not? You did.”

“It’s ludicrously dangerous,” Tim said, scowling at him. “You aren’t even armed. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Rhys could feel his face burning under Tim’s regard. “Of course not,” he snapped, stepping forward. “I was merely—“ He yelped, stumbling forward.

Tim caught Rhys before he could kiss dirt. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“My ankle.” Rhys’ voice was taught as Tim’s bowstring. “I think. When I fell. I think I turned it.”

Tim sighed. “You fell. I suppose that explains your robes.”

Rhys hadn’t even looked at the state he was in. He did now, and saw a long tear up the side of his plum-dyed, hand painted fabric, revealing a flash of pale leg beneath.

“If it’s just your ankle, I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” Tim said as he guided Rhys to take a seat on a boulder. “Let me take a look.”

Rhys barely heard him, too busy mourning the loss of his orchid and finch-patterned robes. The tear had sliced through one of the blooms, bisecting a finch’s wing. Even the most skilled weavers would not be able to set this right.

He startled when he felt a cool, soft hand around his ankle.

“Easy,” Tim said. He was on his knees, Rhys’ swollen ankle in one hand. He squeezed on the joint, a very slight pressure that made Rhys hiss. “Yeah. Looks like you’ve sprained it.”

Tim had big hands. On his knees in front of Rhys, with a strand of chestnut hair falling into his eyes, Rhys wondered how Janey and Hammerlock could have passed this man up. Perhaps that was Rhys’ fault. Perhaps he should have pushed them down the mountain, injure them somehow to force Tim to tend to their wounds.

For a Titan who had been handling swords since he learned how to walk, Tim was surprisingly gentle. He looked up, his eyes meeting Rhys’. His eyes were so very lovely, green and blue. As if the creator could not decide which colour suited him best, so they had gifted him with both.

Something funny happened inside Rhys’ chest. Something that made his breathing catch like it’d tripped in his throat.

“How does it feel?” Tim asked.

Like being stung by one of Moxxi’s bees, or pricking his finger on a rose thorn, except it didn’t hurt, and it was more than just his finger. He could feel it all over, a strange tingling.

And then it was gone. Rhys swallowed.

Tim frowned. “Rhys? How does your ankle feel?”

“Oh.” Rhys looked down at his foot, still suspended in Tim’s gentle grip. “It hurts?”

Tim lowered his foot gingerly and stood up. “We should get you back home. You’ll need some ice, or something cold to put on it to help the swelling.”

Rhys paled, his earlier feelings entirely forgotten. “You’re taking me back?” he asked.

“You’re injured,” Tim said as he set his bow and quiver next to Rhys. “Whatever it was you were coming down here for can wait.”

Rhys aimed his frown over Tim’s shoulder, to the forest ahead. He’d gotten so close. If things hadn’t gotten so strange in the barrier, he would have been able to continue with his plan to spy on Tim and Tim’s possible mortal lover.

Then again… there was potential here, too. With Tim taking him back up the mountain, it offered Rhys an opportunity to get Tim to talk about his personal life.

“Rhys? Are you listening to me?” Tim stood.

Rhys looked up, biting back a smile. “Hm?”

“Did you hit your head before?”

Rhys’ urge to smile vanished. “No,” he said. “I’m just… distracted. What did you say before?”

Tim sighed again. “Put these on,” he said, shoving his quiver and bow into Rhys’ arms.

Rhys looked down at the weapons in his lap, and then up at Tim. “Um.”

Tim really did have quite the expressive face. He looked as if he was trying not to roll his eyes.

“You’re going to wear those on your back,” he said, talking slowly as if explaining something to a child.

“Why would I do that? They’re _your_ weapons,” Rhys said, his face warming. “You can’t just make me carry your weapons when I’m injured.”

Tim ran a hand down his face and flicked his gaze to the sky. “I can. Because,” he said, voice controlled. “I’m going to carry you on _my_ back. All the way back up the mountain. Should be easy. You ready?”

* * *

The bow’s string felt strange, too rough against Rhys’ bare neck and shoulder, and the quiver was a weight he had difficulty adjusting to.

“Quit wriggling,” Tim said.

Then again, Rhys supposed he could have it worse. He settled.

Tim carried Rhys on his back, his arms locked around Rhys’ long legs, just under his thighs. Rhys’ leaned forward,  draped his arms down Tim’s chest like a necklace.

Tim hadn’t said much since they began their journey, and Rhys kept quiet as they passed through the barrier. He raised his eyes to the sky once more, where the moon still sat, fat and luminous and beautiful, like a pearl amidst the diamond stars. It was less disorienting the second time, with Tim’s solid presence against his chest, his hands locked under Rhys’ legs. Rhys could feel the Titan's pulse as if he possessed another heart inside his chest.

“It’s so beautiful,” Rhys said. His voice sounded so quiet and so close to his own ears.

Tim grunted in response. He kept his head up, and although Rhys could not see his face, he could feel the tension in his frame.

“Are we still in danger?” Rhys asked.

Tim didn’t immediately respond. Rhys tried not to fidget, even as his nerves began to wear away at his awe.

“Just be ready,” Tim said.

Rhys waited, but he received no further instruction. He looked back up at the sky and remained as ready as he possibly could.

Once they were through on the other side, Rhys sucked in a gulp of the fragrant air of Olympus, of home, held it in the cage of his chest, and released it in a happy sigh.

“You okay?” Tim asked. He didn’t even pause in his stride. Now that they were through, he began to veer off to the left, towards the path he’d neglected to use on his way down.

“Except for my ruined clothing and my terrible injury?” Rhys scoffed. “I’m doing just great.”

“You’re fine,” Tim said dismissively.

Rhys scowled at the back of Tim’s head. “I twisted my ankle.”

“You didn’t break anything. You didn’t get stabbed or shot. No limbs were lost. You didn’t even lose any blood.”

“Excuse me, but I did so.” He stretched his left leg out, his robe falling away, to reveal the ugly scrape up his calf and his pink and stinging knee. “What do you call this?”

“A scrape,” Tim said without looking.

“That broke my skin. I lost blood,  _Timothy_ ,” Rhys said.

Tim turned his head a little, giving Rhys a view of his expression. It said a great deal about Rhys' scraped leg and the severity of his injury. Rhys’ face grew warm.

“You’ll be on your feet again in a few days,” Tim said, turning to face forward again.

Rhys opened his mouth to argue, but he recalled Tim’s words about being stabbed or shot, and then he recalled the long scar he’d spotted on Tim’s forearm, the smaller knotted scar on his leg, and the little notches on each of his hands. Like many of the warriors in Olympus, Tim’s body was dotted and sketched with scars, both small and large. Rhys spotted one on the back of Tim’s neck, just above the knot of his spine. A small scratch, maybe an arrow’s graze?

For a brief and strange moment, Rhys felt an almost overwhelming urge to put his mouth on it. The notion passed, shivering through Rhys in its wake, like a stone skipped across the surface of a pond.

“Rhys.” Tim jostled him. “Your hands. My neck.”

Rhys leaned forward with a start, releasing Tim from the gentle choke-hold he’d accidentally put him in.

“Anyway, I’m not fine,” Rhys said, picking up the argument as if it were a token he’d dropped on the ground. He focused on his irritation, hoping the strange, shivering feeling would go away by itself. “Remember how we just met? I was attacked by some sort of… shadow thing.”

Rhys felt rather than heard Tim sigh.

“It was horrible. Very traumatic,” Rhys insisted.

“It didn’t even hurt you.”

“Not all injuries are physical, Timothy,” Rhys informed him. Tim shook his head. “What was that… thing supposed to be, anyway?”

Tim shifted his grip again, pushing his locked hands closer to the bottom of Rhys’ thighs, bunching the fabric of his robes uncomfortably against his skin. Rhys squirmed a little to accommodate.

“I have no idea what that thing was,” Tim said. “It doesn’t attack me, but Hammerlock and Athena have both mentioned seeing strange things in the barrier before. I think it might prefer Olympians.”

The blood drained from Rhys’ face. “You think it has preferences?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to ask it. I just know that it’s a reason to be careful.”

By the time they reached the path at last, the ground smoothed out and the bouncing became a little more tolerable. Rhys breathed out in quiet relief. The city’s gates were in view, although Rhys knew they were still quite a ways away.

“So, what were you doing out here tonight?” Rhys asked casually.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Tim said.

“I’m a curious person,” Rhys said.

“Or a nosy one.”

“And you’re evasive. Are your midnight activities supposed to be private? Do you have something to hide, Titan?” Rhys asked.

“I was going to the enchanted forest,” Tim replied. Rhys waited, but that was all he got.

“Why?” he asked.

Tim shrugged, the movement jostling Rhys once again.

“There are celebrations and dinners taking place all over the city,” Rhys went on, once he’d regained his balance. “Why not go to one of them? Why make a midnight journey to the forest?”

“I have my reasons,” Tim said.

“And they are?”

“None of your business.” Tim shifted his grip, ignoring Rhys’ irritated scoff. “Anyway, I’m not a fan of social events. I’m more of a drinking alone sort of person.”

That felt like an opening, one that Rhys would have to play carefully. He rested his chin on the top of Tim’s head. “That sounds depressing. You should drink with friends. It’s far more enjoyable.”

“My friends…” Tim let the sentence wander away.

Rhys forced himself to be patient.

“My friends are pretty busy these days,” Tim said. He cleared his throat. “Planning weddings. You might already know, actually. Janey and Athena?”

“Yes. I’ve already given my blessing,” Rhys said.

“Is that required? Your blessing, I mean?” Tim asked.

“It’s not required for a wedding,” Rhys said, drawing himself up a little straighter. “But it is better all-around if I do. It makes for a more prosperous partnership.”

“What’s the criteria to get your blessing?”

“Now who’s asking a lot of questions?” Rhys asked, with what he knew to be a smug smile. “Luckily for you, I am not a jerk about other people’s innocent curiosity. The criteria required—“

“Never mind, I don’t care anymore.” Tim sounded as if he might have been smiling.

Rhys huffed again, his smile dropping away. “You aren’t funny,” he said. Tim jostled him again, entirely unnecessarily.

“Stop that,” Rhys said, kicking out his uninjured foot while Tim snickered. “It isn’t nice to physically abuse someone who has just survived a horrible trauma.”

“For the last time, you’re fine.”

“I won’t be for much longer if you keep tossing me around like a sack of potatoes,” Rhys snapped. Tim laughed, a soft and breathless sound.

“You’re pretty high-maintenance, huh?” Tim said. Rhys had nothing to say to that. He gave a dignified sniff. “What about you, then? What were you doing out by yourself in the middle of the night?”

Rhys had a feeling this question would be coming. He’d already prepared an answer.

“Have you heard the story about the golden orchid?” he asked. Tim shook his head. “The goddess of the seven seas and the goddess of the moon once became engaged in a contest over who could sculpt the greatest statue.”

Tim exhaled another soft laugh. “What?”

“I don’t know. That sort of thing happens a lot. One Olympian will boast about being the finest violinist in the land, and tanother will call them a liar, and the first will insult the other’s talents, and then their family, and on and on… Meanwhile neither of them have probably played more than five minutes’ worth of music in their entire lives.”

“You Olympians…” Tim clucked his tongue. “You’re all a bunch of lunatics. It’s all that wine you drink, you know. And all the revelry. Even your warriors lack discipline. If Jack and I had gone through with our parents’ plans…” He shook his head.

Rhys leaned forward, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder, until he knew Tim could see the crescent of his face out of his periphery.

“Yes?” Rhys asked, using his most honey-laden tones. “What would have happened, exactly?”

From this perspective, Rhys could see what Tim’s face did when they talked. Or at least, what half of it did.

“We probably would have ended up in the underworld,” Tim said, wearing a peculiar smile. He tilted his head towards Rhys. “But we would have made you work for it.”

Rhys thought back to the stories passed between the Olympians, of the fearsome sons of Hyperion. Of this fearsome son, in particular, and his skills on the battleground.

Rhys considered what Tim would look like during battle. Notching an arrow, drawing the string, his mis-matched eyes fixed on a distant target, his square jaw clenched with concentration. The flex of his muscles under his tanned skin, his own body as much as a finely tuned instrument as the weapons he would wield.

Rhys felt his face warm as he held the image in his mind’s eye.

He recalled what Tim looked like on his knees, with Rhys’ foot in his hand, a lock of hair falling over his eye. Handling Rhys like he was something delicate, something precious.

That strange, shivering feeling returned.

“You okay back there?” Tim asked.

“Fine,” Rhys muttered without thinking. “What were we talking about?”

“Golden orchid.”

Rhys perked up. “Right! Yes! The golden orchid!”

He told the story of Maya and Aurelia’s rivalry, how their attempts at sculpture were dumped into the Elysium forest. How a forest nymph found the statues, assumed they were meant as tokens for her affection, and began creating grander and more beautiful flowers to show her appreciation and gratitude. How she attempted to find the god or goddess responsible for the statues, and left tokens at every temple she could reach, which unfortunately wasn’t many, limited as she was by her roots. And then how she tricked a young hunter to deliver a golden blossom in exchange for the location of a particular oak tree, from which he believed he could craft a magic bow that would always aim true, but he became lost at sea on the way—

“Ouranous’ wounds, does this story just keep going?” Tim asked, puffing out an exasperated sigh.

“They’re all like this,” Rhys said. “The short version is: there’s a golden orchid in an enchanted glade—“

“Do orchids usually grow in glades?”

Rhys pinched his ear. “Enchanted golden ones do. Quit interrupting me.”

“Do that again and I drop you on your ass,” Tim warned.

Rhys huffed. “A friend of mine dared me to find the golden orchid. The end.”

“You had to walk all the way down to do it? Off the path?” Tim glanced back at him. “I thought your kind travelled by birds’ wing or wind or something.”

“Watch where you’re going,” Rhys said, nudging Tim’s face forward. “I don’t want you to trip and fall and break my neck. I tried the raincloud method, but I had no luck. I heard a rumour that if an Olympian went through the barrier the proper, incredibly frightening way, they would be able to travel down the hidden path to the golden glade.”

“Hidden path?”

“Yes. You see, when the nymph created the orchid, it attracted the jealousy of a green wisp, who—“ Tim groaned loudly. Rhys gave his neck a squeeze. “You asked,” he reminded him, but he knew he was smiling.

“I regretted it immediately.”

“Don’t you like stories?”

The gates were in sight, no longer a vague blue and violet outline against the night sky, but something solid and tangible, shining and true. They were not far now.

“I like stories that go places,” Tim said. “Your stories are like a pack of poorly trained dogs on leashes. Pulling in every direction, going off the trail.”

“They’re not _my_ stories. I just retell them. And anyway, I’m a god of romance, not a muse of story-telling.”

Not technically, not anymore. Rhys normally didn’t mind telling people where he’d come from, his humble origins of a rags to riches story was a point of pride, but he suddenly and unaccountably felt… something. Not shame, exactly, but it made him pause before he revealed too much of himself to the Titan.

Tim hummed and Rhys could feel his voice through his back, feel the vibration in his own body.

“There’s no greater story than romance,” Tim said. He sounded wistful. More serious than he’d been since he first began carrying Rhys up the mountain.

A moment later, a flush began to creep its way up the back of his neck. Rhys could feel the heat of his rising blood. Tim cleared his throat.

“That’s what I hear, anyway,” he said.

Rhys knew this was his opening. If he wanted to learn about the beloved mortal—assuming there was one (and the thought that there might be ignited that strange shivering anew)—this would be his chance.

Instead he said, “You called me by my name before. Like you knew me.”

Tim said nothing. His neck burned hotly.

“Why did you know my name?”

“Everyone knows your name,” Tim said.

Rhys opened his mouth, but for once he felt uncertain how to respond. His words dried up in the sudden desert of his throat. His eyes caught on Tim’s scar, small enough that Rhys could conceal it with a press of one finger. He wondered what it would feel like if he did. He wondered what it would feel like on his lips.

When Tim spoke again, it wasn’t until they were within spitting distance of the opened gates.

“You shouldn’t go through the barrier alone. Next time you decide to go orchid hunting, come and find me first,” he said. Rhys stiffened. He tried to catch Tim’s eye, but Tim stared resolutely ahead.

“Why?” Rhys asked.

“Why do you think? I’ll guide you.”

Rhys thought about his scars. He thought about this powerful Titan, this deadly soldier, about all of his strength, and the kindness he’d shown Rhys. How he’d used that strength to carry Rhys back up a mountain without uttering a single word of complaint. Rhys felt something fluttering under his skin, feeling almost feverish. He lay his head back down, pressed his warm face against Tim’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say this week, gang. Thank you all so much for reading, leaving kudos, and messages. It means the world to me. <3


	4. Chapter Four: The Mortal Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to get to know Tim better, and to ferret out information about his possible mortal lover, Rhys recruits the Titan into his search for the mythical Golden Orchid. Purely for professional purposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gang. Just a quick note: I'd added a scene to the end of the last chapter a few hours after I posted it. If you read last week's chapter early after I posted it, you may have missed the additional scene. It's pretty important, so go back and take a peek if you're not sure.
> 
> [Have you guys seen the beautiful artwork Scootsaboot drew for this story? Take a look already!!](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com/post/165052637872/fanart-for-spentgladiatornumbertwos)

"Have you ever been in love?” Moxxi had asked him, decades before.

“In love?” Rhys repeated, swaying on his feet. He had a feeling this lack of coordination would be a feature of the evening.

The wine buzzing in his head made it difficult to focus. He could still hear the voices of his friends and of his former coworkers from draped off entrance to Moxxi’s own home. Rhys wanted nothing more than to turn around and head back inside, to hear them all cheer for him, toast him, speak his name with reverence or at least with respect for his new position. The God of Romance. True Love. Holy Unities. He had finally ascended to where he always belonged.

Moxxi took his chin between her fingers, her long nails pressing lightly into his soft cheek, and turned his face back towards her.

“Rhys, honey,” she said, infinitely patient. “I asked you a question.”

Rhys felt like he was in love right then and there. In love with his new position. In love with the sounds of his friends laughing, with the clink of wine glasses and the ringing of knives on clay platters. With the wine itself, a variety they brought in from all over the plains below. The sweet smell of sacrificial beef filled the air, a tribute from his new mortal worshippers below.

Mortal worshippers! Of his very own! That made Rhys feel more drunk than the wine ever could.

Moxxi stared into his pink face. She didn’t release him. She waited.

Rhys tried to shake off the fog of inebriation. Tried his very best to focus, because Moxxi was his boss now and she was giving him a look he couldn’t unpack.

In love, she'd said. Rhys gave it some thought.

“I’ve been with people before,” he said. Nothing changed in her expression. “I liked them. I liked being with them.”

Light worked strangely on Olympus. A sunset could last a very long time indeed, depending on the time of year. They were in the season of the long, golden hours, and although they were only two hours from the start of the next day, the sun hadn’t completely set below the horizon. The sky had turned a vivid purple and orange, bordering on gold. Moxxi looked good under any light, but she looked particularly stunning now. She would look even better, Rhys couldn’t help but think, if he could read her expression.

Rhys began to fidget. “I don’t know if I’ve been in love,” he admitted at last.

Moxxi nodded. “I’d been wonderin’ about that,” she said.

“But I know what love is like,” Rhys said quickly, his alcohol glow beginning to fade. “I’ve seen it before. I— I can inspire it. I _have_ inspired it. That playwright—the one with the limp—you said it yourself that he created a masterpiece and it was because I knew he was in love with the cobbler’s son and—“

“Now, now.” Moxxi patted him on the shoulder, her bracelets jingling with the motion. “I don’t need to hear your credentials again, Rhys. I’m not about to demote you over this.”

Rhys unwound, his shoulders falling. “Really?” he asked, just to be sure.

She drew one finger down his cheek, an act of affection that normally would have made him squirm away had it come from anyone else. Moxxi was like that. Her touches could express herself better than her words, and she expressed so much love.

“It ain’t easy for our kind to fall in love. And I mean romantic love, not just the body infatuation you get from bein’ attracted to someone.”

“Oh. Because I have felt that kind,” Rhys said helpfully, swaying with the movement of his gesturing hand. The wine rose once more in his body like the tide, called out by the moon above. “I get attracted to people all the time. And we have sex. It’s nice. Fun.”

Moxxi was smiling at him again, which made him feel better. He smiled back, maybe a little goofy.

“It ain’t easy for us,” she said again. “Rhys, I need you to listen to this. We aren’t like the mortals, are we? We’ve got centuries ahead of us, and behind us.”

Rhys did his best to pay attention, although he did not have centuries behind him yet.

“All that time should mean we fall in love all over the place. We have the time for it, right? But we never do. It’s a once in a lifetime thing for our kind. That’s why I ain’t sore that you haven’t felt it yet, Rhys. You’re still young. You’ll get there one day. And when you do…” She pressed her palm flat against his chest, over his beating heart. He looked down. “When you do, you’ll know.”

Rhys stared at the faded gleam of orange-gold light off of her bracelets, her rings. The shine of jewels and precious metals always caught his eye. In his wine-addled state, it felt right to look at them now, and wonder. Had she always had them? Were they gifts?

“Have you been in love?” he asked.

She nodded.

“But you’re not—“ He stopped himself, because it would’ve been rude. And maybe cruel. But everyone knew the goddess of love didn’t stay with any one person for very long. She wasn’t single, exactly, but she wasn’t monogamous, either.

Moxxi’s smile grew impossibly kinder, perhaps because he stopped himself. “I’m in love all the time, Rhys.” She pinched his cheeks. “I’m in a constant state of it. It’s why everyone loves me. They can feel it.”

Rhys remembered his playwright, and the pained look he would wear on his face anytime the cobbler’s son would pass by his vision. Or whenever he was alone. He looked like he’d been writing a tragedy in his head every day for years and years. He looked like he’d been cast in one by mistake.

“Does it hurt?” Rhys asked.

“Of course it hurts,” Moxxi said, her smile growing teeth. “It’s _wonderful_.”

* * *

Rhys knew love, of course. He knew how to receive it from his friends, from the people he’d shared his bed with, from his worshippers far below. He could be graceful with it, careful, even grateful, although that last one wasn’t a guarantee.

And yes, in his own way, he knew how to give it out as well. He loved his friends with a fierceness that occasionally worried him. He could feel their slights as if they were his own, although he didn’t want to. Rhys was loyal, which sometimes felt like more of a weakness than a strength. Moxxi had once told him it was his finest quality.

Rhys thought about that as he removed the day’s jewellery. A person’s best quality was one of the first things Rhys considered when he designed his matches. To know what would attract one potential partner to another was vital to his job. Most of the time, people value in others what they value in themselves. Those with kind hearts and gentle spirits would almost certainly prefer the same in their partner. Those with strong confidence and courageous hearts would almost certainly prefer a brave warrior as their mate.

What did Rhys prefer?

Rhys preferred beauty, in all its forms, regardless of cost. He loved the wild flowers that grew on the side of the mountains. He loved the precious gems set into the golden or silver band of his rings. He loved the shine of a polished bow, the burst of colour on the fletching of each arrow.

His ankle gave a dull throb. He raised it slightly and admired once again the rich indigo colour of its binding.

 _Tim set him down outside the gate. Rhys expected people to run towards them—towards_ him _. He expected faces awash with relief, for surely he’d been gone for hours on a harrowing ordeal. But there was no one, and while Rhys had been gone for a while, it was not long enough to rouse any attention at this time of night._

_“What are you pouting about?” Tim asked. Annoyingly, he sounded only winded, his face holding a minor flush of exertion._

_“I’m not pouting,” Rhys explained in a reasonable voice. “My ankle hurts.”_

_Tim knelt down once again, and just as before, the sight of him on his knees in front of Rhys did strange and lovely things inside Rhys’ head. And low in his stomach._

_“It’s gotten pretty swollen,” Tim reported. He touched the sore appendage with the same care he’d shown before, the lightest brush of his fingers against Rhys’ skin. It sent a pleasant shiver up Rhys’ spine._

_He knew what this was. Attraction was like an old friend to Rhys. There were plenty of people, mortals and gods alike, who could catch Rhys eye. That wasn’t strange. Tim was just a good-looking man, who looked even better on his knees. Nothing to get excited over._

_Tim pulled off his cloak and began tearing strips off the edge. Rhys looked down in alarm when he heard the fabric tear._

_“That’s not—“ he tried._

_“It’s fine,” Tim said, ripping another strip off._

In the present, Rhys touched the edge of his bandage. The colour was like that of night coming in after the sunset. Rich indigo, doubtlessly expensive. Tim had been wearing it when he and his brother had first arrived.

Rhys could picture him when he closed his eyes. Tim standing tall, shoulders square and blank face aimed forward. He did not possess the same regal air as his brother, but as Jack gestured in the periphery of Rhys’ memory, Tim looked to be far more stable. Solid and unbending, like a statue in the centre of town. Unyielding even to the elements. And yet, Rhys could imagine birds collecting on his shoulders, on his head. The image made him smile.

In his memory, he'd caught Tim’s roving eye. And Tim’s gaze had snapped away.

It felt strange to think on that moment now. Rhys had been feeling strange since Tim picked him up and marched him back up to Olympus. The sight of the handsome Titan supplicant before Rhys certainly brought forth a lot of very familiar feelings… but it wasn’t the only thing it brought out. Rhys felt something both like and unlike attraction.

Rhys ran his thumb across the bandage. It felt soft.

* * *

What was Tim’s finest quality? Previously, Rhys had thought him to be gentle and kind. Rhys supposed their meeting did not disprove that assumption, but he no longer thought of Tim as being _only_ those things. Not after he’d been so rude and thoughtless when Rhys had been so helpless and terribly injured.

He had been kind, of course. And gentle. (Definitely gentle. Rhys shivered.) But those weren’t his best qualities.

No one had given Rhys a time-limit for this task, but Lilith had started to notice just how much time had passed since their initial meeting. She had not spoken to Rhys directly, but he'd felt the pressure of her gaze on his face more than once.

“It’s alright, darling,” Moxxi reassured him when he’d gone to her with his concerns. “We all know you can do it. Jack’s happy as a pig paroled from slaughter, and that’ll buy you some time.”

“How much time?” he asked.

“Enough to finish the job,” she said. She wound her fingers through his hair as she soothed his worries. The pressure of her fingers on his scalp felt lovely. Rhys leaned into it, nearly purring. “Don’t worry so much, sugar. You’ve got this.”

Moxxi sounded so certain, so confident in his abilities that it rubbed off on Rhys. Of course he could do this. He was the God of Romance and True Love.

“You won’t tell Vasquez about this, will you?” Rhys asked. Moxxi placed a gentle, red kiss on his cheek.

“Never,” she promised. He believed her, as he always believed every word she ever said.

He couldn’t afford to just throw another potential partner in front of Tim’s path. If he was coming down to the end of Lilith’s timetable, it was time to roll up his sleeves and tackle this mission personally. Rhys tracked Tim down the very next day, his mind filled with purpose.

“Tim!” Rhys raised his hand in an assuredly elegant gesture. 

Tim paused, his shoulders tensing under his tunic. He relaxed only a little when he saw Rhys approaching him.

“Rhys,” he said with a smile of greeting. “How’s your ankle?”

“Are you busy?” Rhys asked at the same time. “Oh. It’s fine. Good as new. Are you busy?”

Tim glanced down to the hem of Rhys’ robes, where the edge of the crisp, white wrapping around his foot was just visible.

“I’m glad,” Tim said, apparently with genuine meaning. “No, I’m not busy. I was just on my way to the library.”

“The muses’ library?” Rhys asked, surprised and side-lined.

“I like to visit them now and then. Their collection is impressive,” Tim said.

Rhys wrinkled his nose. “The dimensions don’t bother you? It gives me a headache.”

“It doesn’t bother me any more than crossing the barrier would. It’s a Titan thing. What do you need from me, Rhys?” he asked before Rhys could explore just what he meant by ‘Titan thing’.

Rhys drew himself up, resuming his purpose. “Did you mean what you said before? About helping me with the golden orchid?”

“Sure,” Tim said with a shrug.

“Great. Pack your weapons and maybe a lunch. This’ll take us a while. Meet me at the eastern gate within an hour,” Rhys ordered.

Some of the warm friendliness drained away from Tim’s expression, replaced by something drier. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Pack me a lunch, too,” Rhys said, patting him on the shoulder with a smile.

* * *

It was a lovely day. It almost always was. Those who could affect the weather down below agreed to a truce when in Olympus.

Before the queen imposed her rule, the sky had been a chaotic place. Brick rolled thunder like a rockslide across the heavens. Mordecai flung lightning to the tip of every peaked roof, the head of any statue. Maya called down thick fog, blanketing the immortals’ city with a white mist so thick, Rhys would hardly be able to see his hand when he held it in front of his face. Aurelia breathed frost across the glittering stone walls, and over every window, and, treacherously, across the ground.

Lilith grew tired of her friends’ antics and forced them to agree to keep it in their robes when they were up above. They agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and only because they knew they would still be permitted to play freely among the mortals.

Rhys had minor control over the rain and fog. Enough to let him pass from Olympus down to the mortal world without physically forcing his way through the barrier. Under normal circumstances, that would be exactly what he would do. But, Rhys realised with a twist of distaste, Tim would probably remember that line Rhys had fed him the other night. If Rhys wanted to keep up the orchid hunting story, they would need to walk. He was not looking forward to walking through the barrier after what had nearly happened to him the other night.

Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, his face wearing a fearsome scowl. It didn’t help his temper at all that Tim was late. It hadn’t quite been an hour yet, but it’d been far too long regardless.

“What are you sulking about?” Tim asked.

Rhys’ head snapped up. “There you are! Do you know how long…” His voice and indignation faded at the sight that greeted him.

Tim approached him, dressed in his travelling clothes, leading a red chestnut horse.

“Sorry I’m late,” Tim said, not sounding it in the least. Rhys didn’t reply. He stared at the horse.

It was a massive creature, taller than even Rhys, and broad. It looked like the sort of beasts Rhys had seen the gods and goddesses ride into battle, the kind that could carry not only the muscled weight of a warrior but all their gear, all their supplies. Roland had once joked that Titan horses could carry an empire to victory. Rhys thought that this horse could do it alone.

“This is Gortys.” Tim patted the horse on its flank. He had to reach up to do it. Rhys tensed, almost expecting the thing to reach over and snap its massive teeth at Tim’s wrist. He expected a shower of Titan blood.

Rhys’ expression must’ve given him away. Tim laughed. “Relax. She’s not violent.”

“She’s… huge,” Rhys said.

“Nothing gets past you, does it? She used to be Atlas’ horse, but she was taken as a prize after Athena killed him. She looks tough, but she’s the sweetest little filly in all the realms, I promise you. Right, girl?” He patted her again, with a sound like a man smacking a solid wall.

Gortys snorted a little. She met Rhys’ terrified gaze with her own eerie blue eyes. Did horses eat meat? Gortys looked like she could’ve chewed Rhys’ head off in two bites.

“Here.” Tim pulled her forward by the reigns. “Come and say hello.”

Rhys stepped back. Tim laughed again.

“It’s not funny,” Rhys snapped. “That thing could trample me.”

“Rhys, come on. She’s not going to hurt you. Here.” He reached out and took Rhys’ left hand quicker than Rhys could react. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” He pressed it against Gortys’ long face, above her nose.

Gortys lowered her head. She made a strange chuckling noise in the back of her throat, a deep sound that made Rhys tense.

“She wants you to pet her,” Tim said.

Rhys did so, dumb-struck and unsure of what else he could do. Gortys’ face was sun-warm and her hair (fur?) was smooth. She lowered her head further, stepping forward with a soft click of her hooves. Rhys held his breath, the muscles in his legs twitching with the urge to run.

He felt keenly aware of Tim’s gaze on the side of his face. He felt it the way he felt the sunlight above. Rhys didn’t move. He didn’t take a single step back.

“See?”  Tim’s voice sounded close. “She likes you.” He brushed his hand lightly across the small of Rhys’ back. Rhys startled.

Tim dropped his hand and stepped away. “Come on,” he said, rubbing Gortys’ neck. “She’s going to take you down the mountain.”

Rhys’ eyes widened. “You’re going to make me ride her?”

“Yep. Your ankle’s still fucked and I can’t pull another round as your beast of burden. I’m too old to be ridden hard like that.” Tim gave Rhys a smile of cherubic innocense. Rhys stared back, his face warm and growing warmer.

“Oh,” Rhys said weakly.

That was innuendo, wasn’t it? Had Tim just flirted with him? Rhys knew he should flirt back. Any other time, he would very much like to. He could fire back as easy as breathing, be witty and charming and clever. But Tim’s innocent smile made Rhys feel like his tongue would trip over his teeth if he tried to say a thing.

Tim stretched his hand out to Rhys. “Here. I’ll help you up.”

This was… fine. Normal. Rhys gave Tim his left hand without thinking about it, the way he would give it to anyone, but as soon as he felt Tim’s callused palm, the roughness of his fingers against Rhys’, Rhys realised he’d made a mistake. He swallowed hard as Tim helped him onto the saddle on Gortys’ back. He wondered if Tim could feel his thumping heart through their contact. Rhys felt like anyone could.

“Good?” Tim asked once Rhys was situated. He still held Gortys’ reigns in his other hand. The sunlight made his hair look as if it were streaked with gold and silver. For the first time, Rhys noticed the freckles scattered over Tim’s face and neck, a shade darker than his brown skin.

Rhys’ mouth felt dry. “Good,” he managed.

* * *

They took the road down, a curving ribbon that cut into the mountain’s surface. It was far smoother than their journey the other night, especially with Gortys taking it at an easy walking pace, as if she could sense Rhys’ trepidation. After a while, Rhys began to relax.

Tim walked ahead of Rhys, holding Gortys’ reigns. Under different circumstances, having to ride something not under his control would bother him, but Rhys found he didn’t mind. He valued his safety more highly than he valued his control over a situation.

“This is my first time taking the road,” Tim said. “It’s… nicer than I thought it would be.”

“You should consider taking roads more often,” Rhys said. He practically had to shout to be heard from so high up above. “Fewer dangers. Fewer opportunities to break your ankle.”

Tim half-turned to face Rhys. “This again? You didn’t break anything, Rhys.”

“I was nearly eaten,” Rhys reminded him.

“For the last time—“

“If you tell me I was fine, after I nearly died at the hands or— or tentacles or weird appendages of some monster that hangs out in the barrier between realms—!”

Tim raised one hand in a show of surrender that didn’t fool Rhys for a moment. He huffed and fell back into sullen silence.

When they began to approach the barrier once more—and Rhys could see it by the way light bent at a wrong angle in the air—Rhys grew nervous. He shifted in his saddle, leaned back as they got closer.

Gortys whinnied quietly. Tim looked back.

“It’s fine, Rhys,” he said. “Take it easy, okay? You’re confusing Gortys.”

Rhys hadn’t even realised he was squeezing his legs until Tim said anything. He forced himself to relax, his face warming.

Tim watched him a moment longer without pausing in his stride. “It’s going to be okay, Rhys.” He smiled and held up the hand clutching Gortys’ reigns. “We’ve got you.”

Sunlight wavered around them. That warm charge filled the air again. Rhys held his breath. The sky above felt larger, emptier, brighter. He felt the pressure of an unseen gaze from a hundred, a thousand different eyes beat down on his head and shoulders like rain. He didn’t want to know what the sky looked like during the day. He closed his eyes.

The last thing he saw was Tim striding ahead, his back soldier-straight, his face forward, head high.

* * *

Tim was right. It was fine. Crossing the barrier took a minute, perhaps less, and nothing strange happened. When they were through, Tim patted him on his knee.

“Good?” he asked.

Rhys stared out at the mortal world, which always seemed less vibrant but far more alive than anything could ever be in Olympus. Nothing was ever the same in the mortal world. Things grew, and died. Buildings fell apart, eroded by time, and new ones were built in the old ones’ place. Rhys could turn his head for one moment and when he looked back, everything would have changed.

“Good,” Rhys replied.

Rhys remained on Gortys’ back for as long as he possibly could, but if he were to stick to his story, they would eventually have to leave the path. Tim asked more than once which direction they should head in, and where Rhys had gone searching before. Rhys fumbled for responses before finally admitting that he wasn’t sure.

Annoyingly, Tim didn’t even look surprised. He only nodded.

“We’ll cover what we can. I can keep track of where we’ve been. Come on, I’ll help you down.”

Rhys reluctantly allowed himself to be taken off of his new friend. Tim held him for a moment as he set Rhys gingerly onto the ground, his hands warm even through Rhys’ light robes (pale blue today, with a fern leaf pattern painted in grey and soft pink). His gaze flicked to Rhys’ face and away.

“You good?” he asked, pulling his hands away.

Rhys huffed. “ _Still_ good,” he said. Tim nodded and began to busy himself with tending to Gortys.

“Aren’t you worried about someone stealing your horse?” Rhys asked as Tim tied the reigns to a tree.

“Anyone tries to steal Gortys is taking their precious mortal lives into their own hands,” Tim said. “She could trample an army to death.”

“I thought you said she was sweet,” Rhys said, crossing his arms.

Tim shot him a quick look, one corner of his mouth lifting. “So am I. Doesn’t mean we aren’t dangerous.”

Rhys was not about to dignify _that_ with a response.

They spent the rest of the morning searching for the legendary golden orchid. Tim pulled them onward, deeper into the rambling forest, without any apparent concern. He seemed to know the area. He never second-guessed his footing, not even when they left the path behind and made their way through the underbrush.

Rhys hiked up his robes, scowling when they caught on brambles and branches.

“Don’t say a word,” he snapped when Tim gave him a side-long look, correctly reading it as a judgement on his sartorial choices. Tim held his hands up once again in that fake-surrender.

Their progress was slow, due to Rhys’ ankle. Tim didn’t seem to mind. He held his hand out now and then to steady Rhys, or to offer him support when the ground became uneven.

Rhys tried to ask Tim personal questions, tried to pry something out of him about any potential mortal lovers, but Tim never rose to Rhys’ baiting questions and after a few kilometers, Rhys' breath began to run out. Between ensuring he didn’t get caught on any branches, or worsen his ankle's condition, Rhys had no attention to spare for Tim’s interrogation.

“I don’t suppose there was a mention of landmarks we should look out for,” Tim asked once they broke for lunch. “A crystal spire, maybe? A babbling brook near an emerald cave?” He snapped a crab leg in half. “Maybe a magical grove where the wind sounds like it’s singing?”

Rhys wiped his fingers off on one of the napkins Tim had thoughtfully packed. “I don’t recall hearing anything about that.”

“You didn’t think to check before you dragged me out here?” Tim asked, raising one brow.

“I’m a busy god,” Rhys said, flushing. “I don’t have time to check up on every little detail in a story I’ve only heard told the whole way through once.”

Eating crab legs was a messy business, and Tim didn’t make it look any more dignified. Rhys could see his tongue working over his teeth through his cheek.

“Busy, huh.” Tim spat out a piece of shell. “So busy you can spend hours wandering a forest with a Titan you barely know?”

“It’s not as if you wouldn’t be out here anyway,” Rhys replied. “You come down to the forest every day.”

Rhys selected one of the broken crab legs and began to pluck the meat from it. The way a civilized person would. He managed to save a few morsels of meat from the shattered shell.

When he looked up, Tim was staring at him.

“How do you know what I’ve been doing every day?” he asked, brows furrowed.

Rhys crammed a piece of dry tack and cheese in his mouth to buy himself time.

“I spoke to Hammerlock,” he said through a spray of crumbs. “He mentioned it.”

Tim looked away, down to their spread. “Oh. Did he tell you what I was, um. What I was doing?”

Rhys frowned. Was Tim blushing? Why would he blush? Did he feel guilty?

A jolt shot through his spine at a possible realization. Could Tim’s bashfulness be related to the infamous mortal lover?

Tread carefully, Rhys advised himself. He leaned back on the tree he sat against, doing his best to look attractively disinterested in whatever conversation they were about to have.

“Oh.” Rhys plucked a small, red strawberry from the spread, holding it up for his examination. “He may have mentioned a thing or two.”

Tim turned redder. He fiddled with the crab leg in his hands. “What sort of things?”

“That someone special might’ve caught your eye,” Rhys said casually as he twisted the stem off. Tim turned a shade beyond red. He was brighter than the strawberry Rhys held in his hand.

“Oh.” He sounded quiet. His hands were moving restlessly, cracking the leg open and picking at the shards. “Um. So you knew. When you asked me to join you, you knew that I…” His voice grew faint. His head bowed, face burning. He wouldn’t look at Rhys.

Rhys frowned. This was an unexpected reaction. Did Tim think relationships with mortals were prohibited?

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Rhys said, reaching over for another strawberry.

Tim huffed. “I know that.”

“Plenty of our kind keep a mortal lover on the side. Some even try to start a romance, although that rarely goes well,” Rhys said, meaningfully. Tim’s expression seemed to freeze. “So. What’s their name? Is it a man, a woman, etcetera?”

Tim stared at Rhys with an expression like a multi-carriage pile-up, his brows pulled together and his lips trembling. He looked like he couldn’t decide if he was about to start laughing or not.

“Sorry,” he said. “I may have… misheard you. Did you just ask for the gender of my, uh, mortal partner?”

This didn’t feel right. Tim didn’t look like a man caught in a lie. He looked at Rhys like he was trying to decide if Rhys was joking.

“Like I said, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Rhys said quickly. “Plenty of Olympians find mortals pleasing. Did you know Roland used to _be_ one before he met Lilith? It’s completely—“

“Did Hammerlock tell you I was seeing a mortal?” Tim asked.

Rhys thought quickly. This definitely wasn’t right. “He… Not in so many words. He mentioned you had your eye on someone special, that’s all.”

Something changed in Tim’s expression. He looked down, pushed his hand through his hair and started to laugh. Rhys’ face warmed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Tim brushed his hand over his face. “He didn’t tell you anything else?”

“There’s no mortal, then?” Rhys asked, edging closer.

Tim sat back on the heels of his hands, still chuckling. “No, Rhys. There’s no mortal in my life.”

That was… good. Rhys knew he should’ve felt relieved. If an Olympian had caught Tim’s eye, that would make Rhys’ job a little more simple, assuming Tim had selected someone appropriate. Heavens help them both if Tim made the mistake of falling for someone already involved with another. He really hoped Tim didn’t like Nisha, or Roland. That could turn things very ugly, very quickly.

Maybe that was why Rhys felt so uneasy. Nothing else would make sense.

“But there is someone?” Rhys pushed, frustrated and disappointed for reasons he struggled to explain to himself.

Tim only shook his head. The lines around his eyes crinkled with his smile, and the sight of it brought back that strange shiver in Rhys’ chest. Tim picked up another crab leg.

“What about you, god of nosiness? You got anyone special in your life?”

Rhys frowned, annoyed at the turn in conversation. “There are plenty of special people in my life,” he said, sitting back. “Vaughn is special. So is Moxxi, even if she is my boss. Yvette, and even Fiona and Sasha.” Sasha had been very special, once.

Tim broke another leg. “You’re seein’ all of those people? Your boss too?” Rhys scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m talking about special in the romantic sense, peacock.”

Rhys picked up one of the freshly broken legs and began to pick meat from the shattered shell. He became engrossed in his work, but he could feel Tim watching him. He hated the way his gaze felt, almost like the unseen eyes within the barrier. A feeling like soft pressure on his skin. It made his heart beat strangely, with something like fear.

Finally, Rhys said, “No.”

Tim blinked, rearing back slightly in surprise. “Really? But you’re the god of romance, right?” Rhys shrugged. “And you’re not hard on the eyes. Hard to believe you’re single,” he said.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rhys said, reaching for the water skein.

“No one’s even tried to woo you before?” Tim asked.

“Oh, plenty,” Rhys said. “But it wasn’t exactly romance they had on their minds.” He drank deeply for a moment, saving him from speaking any further. He felt a trickle slip down his chin.

When he finished, he looked over to find Tim staring at his neck and jaw. Rhys smiled and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“What, uh.” Tim blinked he shook his head. “Sorry. What did they have on their minds?” 

Rhys leaned on one hand, let his robe slip down his inked shoulder. “What do you think?”

* * *

No mortal lover. That was… Rhys still couldn’t decide how it made him feel. Relieved, certainly. But he couldn’t explain the knot of worry and fear that sat in the centre of his chest, that made his heart pick up speed every time he thought about Tim. About the person that Tim was hiding from Rhys.

The answer, Rhys decided, was to keep up with the fiction of orchid hunting.

He found Tim the next day and told him they were going out again to search for it. Tim looked at Rhys with a very strange smile on his face, like Rhys had told him a joke he didn’t find particularly funny. Or perhaps he’d told a joke that Rhys hadn’t understood.

He met with Rhys regardless at the eastern gate with Gortys in tow. He brought a map, his bow and arrow, and a sword.

They spent hours searching the forest. Tim packed them a simple lunch of fruits and meat. This time he even brought a little wine, which Rhys appreciated. Rhys asked Tim probing questions, and Tim continued to deflect and dodge. He called Rhys the god of nosiness three times, which wasn’t funny even once, although he laughed at Rhys’ expression each time.

Rhys returned home before sunset, an hour after they parted ways. He sat in his room, fresh from his bath and smelling of fragrant oils, and began readying himself for the evening’s communal supper at Maya’s sea palace. When he looked into the mirror, he was surprised to find himself smiling.

Rhys took Tim out the next day, and the day after. By the fourth day, Rhys found Tim waiting for him at the eastern gate with Gortys, a lunch, and his weapons. He told Rhys he’d gone to the library the previous night to research the orchid’s whereabouts.

“I wondered where you were last night,” Rhys said as Tim tied Gortys’ reigns to a tree close to her favourite stream.

“Were you looking for me?” Tim asked, smiling that strange smile.

Why did that question make Rhys feel uncomfortably warm? Rhys frowned and turned his gaze towards the sky, where fat, grey clouds had begun to cluster.

“I guess I should’ve expected you’d be doing something boring while everyone else was having fun,” he said.

“There’s nothing less boring than a library,” Tim said.

“Nerd.”

“I was doing what _you_ should have been doing,” Tim said, poking a finger in Rhys’ chest. “Looking into this stupid orchid myth. I can’t believe you were telling me the abbreviated version.”

“Did you find anything useful?” Rhys asked.

Tim lead them through the forest, down a path Rhys didn’t recognize. “I found a mention of a guardian beast. I guess the nymph got pissed off enough about the hunter’s double-cross that she created a boar to protect the glade.”

Rhys paled, stumbling. “A boar?”

Tim caught his hand, steadying him. “Oh, yeah. A big one, too. Enchanted hide. Or cursed hide. I can never remember the difference between an enchantment and a curse…”

Rhys stayed close to Tim’s side during that particular trip. He jumped more than once at the sound of a branch snapping, or a bird taking flight. Tim teased him relentlessly, but didn’t complain when Rhys flattened himself against his side, holding his hand tight enough to make his bones creak.

They didn’t find the cursed boar that day, thankfully. Tim took them both back before sunset, as usual.

“Same time tomorrow?” Tim asked as he helped Rhys down.

Rhys should’ve been used to this by now. Feeling Tim’s hands on him shouldn’t elicit any special reaction. He told himself that he was fine, even if he felt charged every time Tim’s hands lingered.

“Of course. Don’t keep me waiting,” Rhys said.

Tim shook his head. “I never would.”

* * *

In the evenings, after Rhys cleaned up and prepared himself for the night’s revelry and supper, Rhys found time to visit his temple. He drifted down from the mountain in legs made from cumulous clouds, spreading rain and mist in his wake. The priests knew to read the signs. They lit his candles, and cleared out, leaving the hall empty for Rhys’ arrival.

There were more offerings than usual. Word of three prosperous and fruitful godly partnerships had reached the mortals via their augurs, which had encouraged new followers to enter his temple.

Rhys’ heart skipped when he caught sight of a familiar black ribbon. He took a breath and sat down. He would go over the usual gifts and mortal offerings first. He unwrapped every gift, read each note carefully, wrote their names in the air and sent the appropriate blessings. His powers sang in his blood, spreading his good fortune to the worthy and the devout.

It felt good. Using his power for its true purpose always felt good, but it took longer than Rhys would like. Rhys was the sort of person to save the ripest cherry for his last bite. To keep a slice of honey cake ‘til the very end. But he was also very, very impatient.

Finally, finally, Rhys picked up the gift from his admirer—and that word alone made pleasure hum through Rhys’ bones—and held it in his arms. Another bouquet, a collection of white and pink gardenias bundled together with long, curling fern leaves. Once again, the colouring of the blossoms were pure and soft, more delicate than anything Rhys had ever seen, a striking contrast against the vibrant green of the leaves. He ran his fingers across the petals, luxuriating in the silky feeling, before he plunged his hand into the centre, searching for the scroll he knew would be there.

This time, his poet did not describe Rhys in a moment. Instead, his poet had written about Rhys’ charms. Except… Except his poet did not seem entirely complimentary. At one point, the poem described Rhys as being demanding. Fussy. Rhys frowned, disappointment pooling in his stomach.

He read on, and the poem described all the ways Rhys made the poet feel. The word ‘yearn’ appeared only once, but it felt like a stamp of intent over every line. Rhys’ mood picked up like a swallow mid-dive, the swooping trajectory curving him towards the sky.

At the end of the poem, someone had written a few lines in a light, far more casual hand.

‘ _I hope this doesn't trouble you. I think about you all the time.’_

Rhys pressed the poem close to his burning face, laughter bubbling its way up his throat.

* * *

“Ellie, I’m begging you,” Rhys said. The gardenias had made for a lovely flower crown, their blooms accented with green fern leaves worn like winner’s laurels. Ellie stared at it for a moment, almost certainly in admiration, before she replied.

“Sorry, sugar. That’s private information.”

“But they’re _my_ admirer,” Rhys argued.

Ellie shrugged unhelpfully. “They belong to themselves first, Rhys,” she said. “And they’ve asked me to keep these beautiful lips buttoned.”

“What did they give you this time? I’ll double it, whatever it was. I’ll give you something even bigger. Something nicer. Anything you want.” Rhys hated how his voice sounded. He hated asking anyone for anything, but more than that, he hated the way Ellie looked entirely unmoved.

“Sorry,” she said again, although she did not sound it. She patted him on his slumped shoulder. “Cheer up, darlin’. You’re the subject of someone’s romantic affections. That’s a nice thing to be.”

“Just…” Rhys sighed and straightened up from his slouch. “Just tell me. Am I the only one they’re sending poems to?”

Ellie frowned at him. “Of course,” she said. “You’re special to this one, Rhys. They’ve got eyes only for you, the poor bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who continues to read and enjoy this hot nonsense. I appreciate it. :)


	5. Chapter Five: The Guardian Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest for the (possibly non-existant) golden orchid takes a turn for the dangerous.

Rhys knew romance, of course. He understood what it could do to people, both for the admired and the admirer. Rhys had always appreciated the change it brought over his subjects. The way their eyes would glaze over at strange moments, the way their faces would be overcome with an expression of longing. Rhys had always imagined that when it happened to him, he would be cannier against its charms, savvy against its enchantment.

But as Rhys kept his usual social engagements, continued attending the celebrations and festivals held almost every night in Olympus, he found himself just as overwhelmed as those he'd observed before. He felt as if he were dreaming. He pictured himself the way his admirer would see him. He would search crowds, hoping to catch the eye of his poet.

He built a story of them inside his head. Of what they must look like (refined, surely, and possessing of good taste. They’d be well-dressed, well-groomed. Impeccable make-up and jewellery. Attractive, surely, because they were all attractive, but his admirer would be particularly good looking. They would have nice hands). Of what they must sound like (cultured and smooth, witty and charming…). Rhys felt struck by that same longing he’d witnessed on all those poor mortals stung by his tender mercies. He understood, now, why they surrendered to it so readily. It felt wonderful. It swelled in his chest, like something bright and alive.

There were flowers and a poem waiting for him on his next visit to his temple. A white star-burst flower with yellow streaked petals and a yellow heart.

“They’re frangipani,” Ellie informed him later, her eyebrows high with surprise. “Tricky to find and exotic too. Very nice taste on your admirer.”

The poem was better. His admirer had moved past describing moments, and onto describing Rhys, onto describing themselves when they were near Rhys. They talked of a wonderful pain, the longing that swept over them like a wave when they saw Rhys smile, or laugh. Rhys’ poet spoke of their feelings being like rain drumming against the roof, a constant sensation in their chest. Rhys understood exactly what they meant.

A note on the bottom of the poem read: ‘ _I hope you like the flowers. If this isn’t a bother and you’d like me to continue, please wear one over your left ear.’_

Rhys did. He spent the next day looking for anyone staring at him, which was difficult because everyone liked to watch him. He looked for the face with an expression the mirror of his own. That same glazed look that spoke of someone still in the grip of a pleasant dream. Someone who didn’t want to wake up.

* * *

“Where’d that flower come from?”

They were on their second week of their wild orchid chase. Rhys had made an attempt to wear something more appropriate for their journey, but every time he laid eyes on his beautiful wardrobe, his resolve snapped like one of the thousand twigs he stepped on each time they went down to the mortal realm. Today his robe was the colour of sunset over the ocean, a blue gradient with painted fish in soft pink and pale yellow. His latest poem had praised his outfit choices, particularly the way shades of blue brought out the colour of his eyes. Rhys felt pleased with his admirer’s excellent tastes.

Maya’s celebrations had put Rhys in the mood for the ocean. He wondered if he could talk Tim into taking them towards the coast. Maybe if he came up with some other magical flower to hunt down…

“Hm?” Rhys realised he’d been asked a question far too late.

Tim gave him an exasperated look. “You okay? You’ve had your head in the clouds all day.”

“I’m alright. Just thinking,” he said with what he imagined to be a sigh filled with delicious longing. For the sea, for his admirer’s embrace. Their strong arms around him (Rhys decided they had powerful arms, along with excellent hair, and broad shoulders).

“I thought I smelled wood burning,” Tim said.

Rhys scowled, his dreamy mood evaporating. “Is that meant to be funny?” he demanded. Tim shook his head as he knocked another branch aside. “I don’t even know what that means. Why would wood burn when I’m thinking?”

“I think the implication is your head is a wood burning oven…?” Tim tilted his head to the side, one hand holding a low branch to one side. Rhys shimmied past, holding his robes. “I suppose it doesn’t make much sense. Jack used to say it to me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. You tell him that next time you see him,” Rhys ordered. Tim nodded, stepping carefully around a fallen branch. “What were you asking?”

“Your flower,” Tim said, jerking his chin towards Rhys’ ear. “It’s nice. Where’s it from?”

“Some place tropical.” Rhys brushed his fingers against the sadly wilting petals. “I don’t know where exactly, but someplace warm and far…”

That dreaminess stole over him again as he imagined his admirer crossing the seas, gliding across the landscape with ease. Rhys wasn’t sure what elemental form his admirer would take, but he felt good about the wind. Something fierce and powerful, but gentle when necessary. Something that would nicely compliment Rhys’ rain clouds.

So wrapped up in his fantasy, Rhys failed to notice the root raised like a threat in his path until he bounced his toe off of it. He stumbled forward, cursing. Tim reached out, quick as lightning, and pulled him steady.

“You okay?” he asked.

“My toe,” Rhys said through grit teeth.

“You need to start paying attention, peacock. We’re not on a pleasant stroll through a vineyard, you know.”

“I wish we were,” Rhys grumbled as Tim released him. “I hope you packed a nice wine today.”

They were working their way through the forest in what Tim assured Rhys was a logical fashion. Tim informed Rhys that they were exploring different quadrants every day in a methodical, thorough way.

“Although,” he added reluctantly, “it would be more methodical and thorough if we had other people to help us.”

“That’s not necessary,” Rhys said quickly and without thought. Tim shot him a startled look over his shoulder. “I don’t want to share the… wealth with anyone.”

“Is the orchid worth anything?” Tim asked.

“The experience, then. Does it matter?” Rhys asked as he picked his way across a tangle of roots. “I’m not interested in sharing.”

“You’ll share with me, though,” Tim said mildly.

“Who said I would?”

“You are going to share with me. You wouldn’t drag me out here day after day if you didn’t intend to give me half of the prize.” Tim sounded playful, confident. His eyes gleamed as he helped Rhys over and down a felled giant oak.

“How do you suggest we share a _flower_?” Rhys asked, clutching their lunch close.

Tim shrugged, his watchful eyes fixed on the ground. “Split it in half?”

Rhys gave him a look of mute outrage. Tim laughed at him.

“Fine. How about I keep it some days and you keep it others?” he suggested.

“It’s a flower,” Rhys repeated, his voice withering. “It’ll die after a week if we don’t replant it right away.”

“You don’t know that. It could be a magic flower,” Tim said. Rhys let his expression do the talking. Tim laughed at him once more. “We’ll think of something. I know—“

Rhys didn’t couldn’t explain what happened. One moment he was beside Tim, and the next the world became a smear of colour and blurred shapes, his ears filled with the sound of hissing leaves and twigs snapping. When the world refocused, Rhys found that he’d been taken from the ground. When his senses returned less than a second later, Rhys realised he was suspended in a net.

“What— What in the freezing seven hells is this!” He kicked out against the ropes, but he accomplished very little. The net bag swung him around in a gentle circle.

“Rhys?” Tim stared up at him with wide eyes. His face had gone pale. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Rhys snapped, kicking out again in righteous anger.

Tim looked at the tree trunk, his hand on his sword’s hilt. He looked back up at Rhys and licked his lips.

“I can cut you down, but—“

“Don’t you dare!” Rhys hadn’t realised how high up he’d been taken until that moment. He hung only a few scant feet below the canopy. He could hear birds snickering to their hungry hatchlings. He scowled.

There wasn’t much moisture in the air, and the sky almost completely clear. Cut off from the divine Olympus, Rhys felt restricted. He had access only to the elements surrounding him, and with the bright blue and clear sky above his head, they were not ideal.

“I can try to climb,” Tim said. Rhys could see white all around his irises. He clucked his tongue.

“It won’t be necessary. I’m a god, remember? I can get myself out,” Rhys said. Tim relaxed.

Rhys gathered as many clouds as he could, pulling them towards him from great distances. Sweat beaded on his forehead, prickled under his arms and at the back of his neck. It was harder than he would ever admit to pull the wisps of cirrus from where they had started to creep towards the mountains. 

Spreading out his influence like this, Rhys couldn’t help but take notice of his surroundings in a more intimate fashion. He could feel the thrumming life of the trees, the moisture in their green leaves, in the living wood itself. He felt the small bodies of the birds that had found such humour in his predicament, the water in their bellies, in their veins. Insects of all shapes and all sorts, a thriving invisible crowd of them hidden below the moss, under the rich soil, in the trees themselves, on the leaves.

Tim, a solid presence like a lodestone just underneath Rhys. He felt so strange, like and unlike mortals. He felt alive to Rhys the way mortals did, but he lacked their fragility. He felt whole in a way mortals didn’t, something Rhys hadn’t even realised until that moment. Rhys could feel the sweat on Tim’s brow, on his neck. He could practically taste it.

Clouds gathered around Rhys like a cloak and his body lost focus. He expanded, pushing himself out from between the rope links.

And stopping, as if faced with a solid barrier. Rhys frowned with a face he no longer had and tried again, only to meet the same results. He tried a third time, the clouds already beginning to dissipate, his strength beginning to flag, but nothing had changed. Desperate now, and regaining his solid form, Rhys tried a fourth time, seething in the net like snakes in a sack. Nothing.

He dropped back into his solid form, soft and warm and highly unlikely to wriggle out of the rope net any time soon. Tim called his name, but Rhys didn’t have the energy to respond. He panted, his fingers gripping the rope, and stared sightlessly at the shaking canopy.

“Rhys!” Tim’s voice was a command. “What happened?”

“I can’t… I couldn’t…” Rhys wiped his forehead. “I couldn’t get out. It didn’t work. What the seven hells is this rope made out of?”

“It might be of Titan design.”

“Why would Titans build a trap like this out here?” Rhys demanded.

“To trap pretty little gods like you,” Tim said. “What worries me is why a Titan would design a non-lethal trap…” he added in a lowered voice.

Rhys heard him anyway. “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”

Tim looked at the trunk, and then at the ground. He looked up at Rhys, his brows crunched together, forming heavy lines on his forehead. His whole face was a frown, aimed right at Rhys.

Rhys aimed one right back. Tim heaved a sigh and began to strip out of his cloak and armour.

“What are you doing?” Rhys demanded.

“Stay put,” Tim said. Rhys snorted. “I’m coming up there.”

“You’re going to climb?” Rhys asked, squirming a little to get a better look. There were several sturdy branches, but they were all at least eight feet off the ground. No doubt the Titan who’d chosen this location had done so for that exact purpose.

Tim had gone a few shades beyond pale. He looked almost green under his freckles. He didn’t respond to Rhys, he merely gave a miserable nod as he started to wrap his cloak into a long, taut rope of fabric. Rhys watched him, unable to understand the purpose of Tim ruining yet another cloak on Rhys’ behalf. He hoped this one didn’t have any sentimental value.

Rhys blinked, confused. What would it matter if it did?

Tim wrapped the fabric rope around the length of the trunk and held onto the ends in each hand. He braced the flat of his foot against the bark and let out a long breath. He looked up at Rhys. His lips had gone white. Rhys had nothing else to do but stare back and try to regain his strength.

Tim whipped the rope up above his head and pushed off of the ground. Clinging to the rope and using his own feet, he began to slowly scale the trunk. Rhys watched his ascent because there wasn’t much else he could look at. He’d gotten tired of listening to the birds’ high-pitched snickering. He hoped Tim’s noise and presence would spook them soon.

“Talk to me, Rhys,” Tim said, panting between each breath.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Um. What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. I don’t care. Just…” Tim bit his lips and stared hard at the bark in front of his face. His knuckles and hand had turned white, and his arms were trembling. His face looked shiny with sweat. He closed his eyes and breathed out harshly. “Please just talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t stop,” Rhys said, watching the muscles in his forearm twitch. “Keep going. Do you expect me to stay up here all day?”

Tim didn’t respond. It was difficult to see from his current position, but Rhys thought he might’ve closed his eyes. The shaking in his limbs only got worse. Rhys’ heart began to pound out of—what? Sympathy? That couldn’t be right. Fear, perhaps. If Tim locked up, they’d be stuck there forever.

“Do you know anything about flowers?” Rhys asked.

Tim nodded.

“Do you know anything about the meaning behind certain flowers?” Rhys pressed. Tim hesitated and then gave a very small nod. “Of course you do. Nerd. I guess that’s what you get by spending your nights in a library with only books for company instead of outside with other people and alcohol and food.” Rhys sighed. “And music and dancing…”

Tim huffed. “There’s nothing wrong with books.” He began to move once again. Rhys let out a silent breath.

“The fact that you would say that tells me there’s something wrong with _you_ ,” Rhys said.

“Didn’t you used to be a muse? You…” Tim puffed out another breath as he climbed. “You should be on better terms with the whole library thing.”

“How did you hear about that?” Rhys asked, frowning.

“Someone must’ve mentioned it to me.”

Rhys hadn’t. He felt a little disturbed that his humble origins were so widely discussed that Tim could just hear it. Tim! Who barely spoke to anyone except for Rhys, his small number of friends and his brother.

“You were… talking about flowers?” Tim prodded, breathing hard.

“Right. I love flowers.” Tim’s shoulders were heaving, the muscles on his neck, in his arms, were tight and trembling. Rhys felt the familiar and almost comforting sensation of arousal. It was almost a relief. “My followers like leave me offerings at my temple. Um. Like they do for most gods.”

Tim was getting closer, close enough that Rhys could see it when a bead of sweat trailed down his neck. From this angle, Rhys could see right down his tunic, which was a pleasant distraction.

“Always thought… that sounded nice,” Tim said.

“It is.” Rhys angled his head for a better look. The canopy prevented much light from getting through, and Tim’s tunic cast a shadow, but Rhys thought he could see the shape of his chest.

“They leave… you flowers?”

“They do.” Rhys leaned his weight against the net, relaxing. “Sweets and jewellery are, of course, preferred but I’m an understanding god. My followers who cannot afford such things can leave me flowers.”

“It’s only… for the poor… ones?”

Rhys traced his finger down the rope, his eyes still on Tim’s neck and chest. “Anyone can, really. But it’s mostly the poorer ones who do.”

“White flowers… aren’t cheap.”

“Some are. Anyway, I’m not picky,” Rhys said, knocking his ankle lightly against what he was beginning to think of as his net. “Even a daisy is fine. It’s the intention behind the gesture that matters. Although,” Rhys added, “that doesn’t mean I would turn away a golden crown, even if it were offered without pure intentions.”

Tim let out a breathless laugh. “What do… you do with… the flowers?”

“I keep them. Sometimes I make them into crowns, or necklaces, or bracelets. They all die eventually, but it’s nice to have and display them while they’re still vibrant. The ones I really like, I dry out and press between pages of a book.” He touched his left hand to his ear, searching for his frangipani, only to find it gone.

His heart felt strange. As if it’d missed a beat in its otherwise perfect rhythm.

“I’m glad… you like them,” Tim puffed.

The frangipani… Did his poet even see him with it? What if they hadn’t? What if they thought Rhys had spurned their gifts, their attempts to fling woo? Rhys’ heart picked up its pace, as though trying to make up for the rare skipped beat.

Rhys’ mind concerned itself with other things. “How did you know I prefer white flowers?” Rhys asked.

Tim’s head snapped up. His eyes appeared wide, but they had been wide and glassy since he’d begun his ascent. He opened his mouth—

Something thundered below and the tree shuddered. Rhys squawked as his net shook. Tim held very still. His whole body trembled like a muscle on the verge of being pulled too far. A band ready to snap. He took a deep breath and looked down.

Rhys did too. His mouth fell open.

Crashing through the forest was the largest, angriest looking boar Rhys had ever seen. There were broken arrows sticking out of its matted hide like porcupine quills, including one through its nostril. Its four yellowed tusks were just visible through the mess of brown fur, poking out from its mouth. Its face, when it turned to look up at them, was a mess of criss-crossing scars. It stared up at Rhys with eyes like polished black stones.

“What…” Rhys’ voice was a rasp through his dry throat. “What do we do?”

Tim didn’t respond, which wasn’t helpful. The boar took a few steps backwards, which was worse. Rhys didn’t know a thing about boars or what they looked like just as they were about to charge, but he imagined they would look something like the monster below. Perhaps not as nightmarish.

“What do we do?” he asked again, voice strong with mounting panic.

“You stay where you are,” Tim said. He loosened his grip on his cloak and slid down the trunk, just as the boar began its charge. Rhys watched, paralyzed, as the boar struck before Tim could completely land.

Tim bounced off the trunk and fell hard to the ground. He rolled quickly out of the boar’s path as it began to turn. He sprung to his feet with his sword drawn.

Rhys did his best to keep up with the fight, but the boar shook the  trees as it ran. Leaves fell around Rhys, and the panicked sound of wings taking flight filled his ears.

Tim was fast and light on his feet, but the forest was not a battleground. He stumbled more than once as he tried to keep out of goring range.

The boar looked fearsome, but its movement was limited. It charged at Tim, chasing him between the trunks. Tim ducked to one side during such a charge and slashed his sword across the beast’s side. It was a light blow, too light to do much more than part the matted fur and cut a few arrows.

The boar twisted its head with an outraged grunt, sweeping with its tusks. Tim dodged the blow and the boar turned, its hooves skidding a little in the mossy ground, and charged full tilt at Tim.

Rhys couldn’t stay up here and just watch. He had to think. He looked around for anything useful, anything sharp, but there was nothing within reach. The net kept him too far from any of branches.

The boar bellowed. Rhys looked down in time to see it get itself wedged up to one shoulder between two trees. Snorting and stomping, its hooves sliding in the fallen leaves and wet moss, it scrabbled desperately towards Tim.

Tim’s face was a pale shape with a red slash. When had he started bleeding?

Tim wiped his forehead, smearing blood across his face, and circled the boar warily. Why didn’t he just attack? The boar twitched its massive head, its tusks kicking up loose leaves and dirt with the movement, as if to answer Rhys’ question. Tim approached cautiously from the side, just out of reach of the creature’s teeth, its thrashing head.

Tim darted forward and stabbed at its flank. The creature let out another ear-shattering bellow as the sword pierced its flesh. It kicked out violently with its hind leg, its hoof missing Tim’s head by inches as Tim dropped to the ground. The boar stomped, but Tim rolled away to its rear. He stabbed it again, this time in the rump and dodged the second kick the boar aimed at his face.

The boar wriggled, thrashed, and fought. Rhys could see the trees holding it begin to bend.

Think. What did he have on him? A flower he’d lost. His clothing. Their lunch bag.

The bag! Tim had packed them oysters for lunch, which had pleased Rhys at the time. It pleased him more now, because he knew from painful experience, what the sharp edge of an oyster’s shell was capable of.

He pulled the sack out from where it was wedged between himself and the net, and reached inside for their food. The oysters had been packed tightly, wrapped up, but the adventure with the trap had jostled everything and Rhys winced at the feel of brine on his hand. He selected a likely looking one, ate the innards, and pulled himself up with one hand. With the shell clutched tight in his mechanical hand, Rhys began to saw at the ropes suspending his net. There were more than a dozen lines to cut, but he figured he could get free after six.

There was a sound of something cracking below and Rhys heard Tim’s voice cry out. Rhys looked down, still sawing, and saw Tim stumble backwards, bent double, his free arm wrapped around his stomach.

The boar had pulled its second shoulder through the wedge of trunks. It snorted and tossed its head back, snapping a few of the lower branches.

One rope snapped. Rhys took a breath. Only five more to go.

Rhys kept his eye on the action below, as if by watching he could somehow prevent Tim from getting further injured.

Tim had regained his footing, had straightened up from his pained crouch. He stabbed at the boar a few more times, but he was prevented from getting any real power behind his attacks by the boar’s kicking legs, its gnashing teeth. Any time Tim got close enough to stab, he would have to move just as quickly away. Rhys couldn’t even tell if he was getting through the monster’s hide.

Another rope sawn through. Four left.

The boar howled after Tim stabbed its chest, and kicked out so quickly that Tim didn’t get away in time. It caught him in the leg. He stumbled back with another bitten off cry of pain.

Rhys worked faster.

With a crack of wood, it pulled itself through by another few inches. Leaves, seeds, and bits of abandoned nests rained down around them. Tim squared off against the creature. His face looked redder than before. It looked like he was bleeding from his mouth, his nose. His hands were covered, almost black, and Rhys hoped that was the boar’s blood.

The trees holding the monster groaned. The boar squirmed its way through, its chest almost completely free. Tim spat out a mouthful of blood and lowered his head.

Rhys wanted to scream. He saved his energy for his task, and was rewarded when the third rope finally snapped. His net jerked, the top gaping open. Rhys flexed his mechanical fingers and got to work on the next one.

There was, he knew, another and far more tiring task ahead of him.

Clouds began to gather above, galloping across the plains, crashing together and bruising the sky. Rhys had nearly sawn through the fourth rope. He could try now, he supposed—the net hung open and if Rhys could’ve reached the branch above, he could’ve climbed his way free. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what Titan sorcery kept him locked up during his earlier attempt, and he didn’t want to risk trying an escape without being certain he could get loose. He only had one shot at this.

Despite everything going on above and around him, Rhys tried to keep an eye on the fight below.

Tim flexed his grip on his sword, but he didn’t make another move. He stared at the boar like he was waiting for something.

The boar was all movement. Scrambling in the moss and the underbrush, kicking up stones and dirt, old leaves and unlucky insects.

At this rate, the boar would fight its way free. Rhys wanted to shout some sense into Tim, but he grit his teeth and saved his energy.

The trees cracked again, louder than ever before, something final in the note. The boar gained traction on the ground, hooves skidding over moss, and it was moving, coming finally free—

Tim charged.

Rhys tried to follow what happened next, but it was difficult because Tim was so fast. Tim ran at the beast, kicked off the ground and aimed himself between its tusks. He stomped on the snout as the boar lowered its head to start its own charge and vaulted himself onto its head. He thrust his sword forward, sliding over the creature’s head as it tossed him back.

The boar made a sound Rhys had never heard before. It made every muscle in his body lock up. It made him feel very small, very fragile, very soft. It was so loud.

When he looked down at last, he saw the boar thrashing its head around, a sword stuck clean through its eye. Black blood poured down its snout, flicked onto the trunks and the ground in fat splotches. All the while, it made that sound: a sort of screeching bellow that rattled the small bones in Rhys’ ears. Sounding like the last thing he would ever hear.

The fourth rope snapped. The net sagged but it didn’t drop him yet. Rhys' gaze flicked up to the iron grey sky, barely visible through the shifting canopy. He could taste rain in his mouth, but was it enough? He only had one shot.

Where was Tim?

The boar stomped through the forest floor, angrier than anything had ever been. It could’ve crushed rocks into pebbles. It could’ve bowled over any tree. It could’ve pulverized any soft body unfortunate to get under it.

Rhys could see blood on its tusks. _Where the hells was Tim?_

Thunder rolled above, and while that wasn’t Rhys’ style, he appreciated the gesture. He wondered if the gods were watching this. He hoped they were.

Rhys began to saw desperately, searching the underbrush for a sign of the Titan. Could he have fled?

No. Rhys couldn’t fathom it. The man who carried Rhys up the mountain would not abandon him now. But where—?

Rhys saw red against green, saw pale skin under low branches. He saw Tim crawling through the ripped up moss and mud. His arm hung limp at his side. His head was bowed. His leg was so red it was almost black. His green tunic had turned brown and heavy.

Blood. So much, Rhys could smell it.

The boar could, too. It turned, screeching, bellowing, howling. A monster in search of its victim, looking to finish a job. It saw Tim, saw his feeble movement, and it charged and Rhys was out of time. He was out of time.

The fifth rope snapped but Rhys was out of time. He let go of the net, let go of the shell. He dropped.

He pulled the clouds close and let himself unfold.

* * *

Thunder grumbled above the temple, a flash of lightning bringing brief definition to an otherwise grey and formless sky.

The priests vacated the temple in a rush, the sudden onset of the storm spooking them. They chose to believe that the deity that came for them was theirs, although he’d never before visited them quite like this. When Rhys approached, it was always on soft feet of gentle rain. The storm stumbled in on high winds, pouring rain onto the stones like it was too heavy to hold any longer.

In their hurry, the priests had lit too many candles. The shadows trembled in yellow-white light, and the air felt warm and wet, like breath against the skin. Fog rolled in from the open entrance like an exhalation across the stone floor. It began as thick and opaque as a white tongue but became as thin as sheets as it approached the dais. It spread out, touched every corner, rose towards the ceiling.

Tim lay at the feet of Rhys’ statue, nestled amongst the white flowers and shining gifts. His head rested against the stone folds of the statues’ robes, white and pink petals tickling his chin. His eyelids flickered, his lips parted. He looked as pale as the blooms he’d been deposited onto, as the fog that had spirited him inside.

The fog that had now vanished.

Rhys stood beside Tim, looking no better. He sat down hard, as if his legs had been cut out from under him. He stared dazedly at Tim’s white face, blinking rapidly while his mind tried to assemble the last few minutes into a sensible order.

Tim. Tim had fought a monster and. He’d been gored.

Rhys’ gaze lowered down to Tim’s stomach, where his ripped tunic was heavy and sodden. The creature’s tusks must’ve gotten him during his leap.

Rhys reached for his robes in a daze, gripped it in both hands and tore. Tearing silk was never easy, and the sound it made punctured through the fog of exhaustion in Rhys’ mind. It hurt to hear, but not enough to make him stop.

Rhys started wrapping his newly made bandages around the ragged rip in Tim’s stomach. As he worked, the wheels and gears in Rhys’ mind recovered from their stall and began to turn once more. His hands felt steady and, when he looked down at their good work, he was pleased to see how they didn’t shake or tremble. Even when blood made his fingers slick. He tied the knot, made all the more tighter thanks to the dampness of his work.

There was a mortal saying about that, wasn’t there? Rain on a wedding day was meant to be good luck. A knot was made stronger by water.

If there was anyone getting married nearby, they were certainly feeling lucky. The storm Rhys had brought forth pounded on the walls, on the stone roof. He could hear it hissing outside the wide open entrance, the drops misting into Rhys’ temple.

Tim stirred finally, his eyelids flickering just as Rhys finished his work. He stared up at the temple ceiling, at the fresco one of Rhys’ more devout followers had painted for him. A riot of flowers of all shapes and all kinds, everyone’s best guesses for his favourites. Tim’s brow furrowed.

“You brought me to your temple?” he asked. Rhys nodded. “Why?”

Rhys didn’t know. There were plenty of reasons, and many of them sounded good in Rhys’ head. The temple was close, closer than Olympus, and Rhys used up so much energy just whisking them both away from the forest. He could still remember how it felt, how hard it was, to hold solid and unbending Tim in his arms that weren’t arms at all. How much focus he needed just to keep Tim from slipping out of his grip.

He couldn’t tell if that was the truth. Looking down at Tim, laid out at his stone feet among all his other offerings, Rhys wondered if there might’ve been another reason.

Tim closed his eyes. “Did I ride here in a rain cloud?”

“A storm,” Rhys said. As if to prove his point, thunder rumbled from somewhere distant and safe.

Tim breathed in, his face contorting with pain. “I can smell it,” he said, relaxing on the exhale. “S’nice.”

Rhys nodded. His head felt very heavy. His whole body felt weighted, sluggish, almost as if he were still caught in the Titan’s net. He didn’t know what to do now. Tim was awake and breathing. That felt promising. Rhys knew his next steps should take them back to Olympus, but he didn’t think he could walk out of his temple without assistance.

“How’d you get out?” Tim asked.

“Oyster shell,” Rhys replied.

“Clever.” Tim smiled. “You’re not just a pretty face, huh?” Tim drew a finger across Rhys’ cheek, light as a single tear. 

Tim’s smile faded as his gaze slipped towards the left of Rhys’ face. “Oh.” He touched Rhys’ left temple. “Your flower.”

“I lost it,” Rhys said. A thought occurred to him, pushing its way past the clouds still gathered behind his eyes. “Your sword. Your armour. They’re gone too.”

Tim sighed and closed his eyes. “Sorry about your flower.”

“Those were yours,” Rhys said. Tim’s eyes snapped open. “Your armour and sword. When you came to us the first time. You had them. They were yours from before. Like the cloak.” Rhys’ eyes began to sting. “And your brother. I took it all from you.”

Lines formed around Tim’s eyes, between his brows, around his mouth. Frowns that would keep their marks on him forever, age him in a way he shouldn’t have aged and that was Rhys’ fault too. He couldn’t explain why it hurt so much. He clapped one hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders began to shake.

“Jack’s fine, Rhys. Hey. Hey, come on.” Tim’s voice was so gentle. Rhys shook his head. He heard Tim shift, heard his quiet groan, and then he felt his callused and bloody hand on his wrist. “Rhys, please. It’s okay. You didn’t take anything from me I wasn’t willing to give.”

Rhys’ sucked in a shaking breath. It was like the inverse of being struck. His lungs filled, his chest expanded, like something had started growing inside of him.

Tim smiled at him. He cupped his cheek with his big, warm hand. “Thank you for saving me, Rhys.”

“I’m sorry.” Two words Rhys always struggled with, but this time they cost him nothing. It was the first time he’d ever said it to Tim.

“You’ve got nothing to apologise to me for,” Tim said.

He was wrong, of course, but even in his addled state, Rhys knew better than to correct him.

* * *

Rhys hadn’t managed to save his flower, or any of Tim’s possessions, but he did keep their lunch. He’d barely even noticed that he still had it. He’d been far too preoccupied with keeping Tim safe and close, cradled in the eye of his storm. It wasn’t until Tim asked about it that Rhys remembered having it.

When he returned from washing the blood from his hands in the temple’s impluvium, he found Tim propped up against the stone dais, one hand folded over his bandages and his legs stretched out. He looked comfortable, as if they were seated on a picnic blanket under a tree. He’d stopped bleeding, which was a relief. Some colour had even returned to his face. Rhys didn’t know how Titans healed, or how quickly it happened.

Rhys asked Tim, who shrugged.

“It’ll take some time,” he said, which was an absurd answer. Of course it would take time. That answer applied to every single creature in heaven and below. “I’m not in any danger of dying, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course I am,” Rhys said, ripping off a piece of bread from their sadly crushed loaf. Tim stared at him, as if Rhys’ honest answer was a pearl he’d let fall from his mouth.

He recovered quickly. “Well. Okay. Now you know.”

Rhys nodded. Now he knew. He stuffed the flattened bread into his mouth, ravenous. After the first mouthful, he realised the depth and width of his hunger, how it seemed somehow larger than his body, and he reached for the brine-soaked cheese with the hand not currently shoving more bread into his mouth. He hadn’t eaten like this since he was very young, and very uncouth. Crumbs spilled over what remained of his robes, down his hands. He reached for an offering of wine and drank deeply.

Rhys sucked back two oysters, half a wedge of cheese, and almost all the bread before he remembered he wasn’t alone. He flushed. When he finally looked over to Tim, who had been watching Rhys with a half-smile all along, his face burned.

“Um.” Rhys’ cheeks bulged with half-chewed grapes. Tim raised his eyebrow. “Do you want any?”

Tim’s eyes sparkled, a look Rhys recognized very well. Tim was laughing at him without making a sound.

“I’m okay,” Tim said.

It was too late. The idea was in Rhys’ head and he realised just how inappropriate he’d been, and how injured Tim was. “You should eat,” he insisted, picking up the last of bread.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Tim held up his red and black stained hands. “Maybe after we get back to Olympus. When you’re feeling strong enough to take us.”

Rhys realised, with a curl of shame in his stomach, that he should’ve brought something to clean Tim up with. He should’ve offered him food, or water. He hadn’t, though, and it was already too late. Rhys decided he wouldn’t feel bad about something he couldn’t change. He would work, instead, to make up for it.

“Here.” Rhys shuffled closer to Tim. He held the bread up to his mouth. “Open.”

Tim stared at him. Rhys stared back. Outside, the rain began to slacken.

“It’s fine,” Rhys said, confident that he was telling the truth. “My hands are clean. And you need to eat. So.” Rhys cleared his throat. He knew he was still blushing. Tim said nothing. His face revealed nothing. “So...”

His gaze still locked on Rhys’ face, Tim slowly, finally, opened his mouth.

There was no way to hand feed someone without it becoming truly, painfully intimate. Rhys did his best to remain platonic, almost clinical, as he placed the bread onto Tim’s tongue, but he felt Tim’s warm breath tickle the skin on his hand. He felt a light brush of Tim’s lips as he closed his mouth just a moment too soon, before Rhys could fully pull away.

Tim let his head fall back against the dais. He chewed mechanically, swallowed.

“There,” he said. “I’m good.”

Rhys knew attraction. He knew lust. He knew very well what it could do to him, and not just the predictable ways his body reacted. He knew how it could fill his head like the mid-day sunlight. How it could make certain nerves twinge with a needy phantom pleasure. He knew how it coloured his cheeks, how it made him part his lips, made his breathing shift. Lust, he’d been told before, was a good look on him.

What stole over Rhys then felt enough like lust that he was almost fooled. But there was something off. Under the heady rush of heat, Rhys felt something thin and weak, something frightened.

Rhys reached for one of the few intact grapes left. He held it up to Tim’s lips.

This wasn’t smart, he knew, but that was something lust did to him too. It made him stupid.

Tim watched him warily, like he wondered if Rhys might try something. Rhys wondered too.

Tim opened his mouth.

Rhys placed the fruit between his lips, hoping that might be safer, but it meant he had his fingers on Tim’s mouth when he closed it.

Cheese next, and this time Rhys felt the tip of Tim’s tongue against the pads of his fingers, warm and wet. Rhys began to sweat.

He’d never pampered anyone like this before. Rhys was used to being the one fed. He was used to the lavished attention, the sweet regard of someone trying to persuade him into bed.

This was strange. Rhys felt he should say something, anything at all. He searched his mind for appropriate topics even as he reached for another grape. He wondered, somewhat deliriously, if he should peel the skin first.

Tim sighed and Rhys felt it down his wrist, and all over. Tim’s lips were shiny with juice. When Tim closed his eyes, Rhys resisted the urge to lean forward and steal a taste.

“Gortys,” Tim said.

Rhys jerked back, guilt flooding his face with heat. “What?”

“Gortys. We left her there.” Tim opened his eyes. “Do you think she’ll be okay? I’m worried the boar might come after her.”

Rhys hadn’t even thought about his favourite horse. He frowned. “We left her pretty far from the attack site. And that boar was in no condition to go hunting.”

Tim nodded, looking unconvinced. Rhys tore off another piece of cheese.

“She’ll be fine. That thing’s going to be too preoccupied with pulling a sword out of its head to go looking for her,” Rhys said.

“She’s tough, too,” Tim said, trying to convince himself. Rhys held the cheese to his mouth.

“I’ll find her before tonight.” Tongue again, and it felt so deliberate. Rhys wondered if Tim was trying to lick the salt from his fingers. His whole head felt hot and empty.

Tim smiled at him. “I would appreciate that.”

Rhys thought about what _he_ would appreciate. Rhys thought about putting the next grape between his teeth and curling towards Tim. He thought about putting his fingers back in Tim’s mouth and finding out how talented that tongue could be.

Rhys shifted, positioning his tattered robes more discreetly over his lap. 

* * *

Rhys took them both to Olympus in the remnants of the storm. He limped up the mountain, precipitation bleeding away as they approached the summit. Now that he knew it was there, Rhys could feel the barrier clawing at him, although it could find no purchase in him when he was like this. He thought about Tim, suspended in the dissipating clouds with his eyes and mouth tightly shut, and wondered if the barrier could feel him too. Rhys held him as close as he could.

They were greeted by the gods of medicine and healing, who stood beside the gate as if they were expecting them. There were others, too. Gods and goddesses and even muses, standing close like spectators at a match. Rhys wondered if they had seen the boar fight.

Peering into the mortal world was beyond Rhys’ abilities, but he knew there were those among them who could, and did, spy on the earth beyond the barrier. Mordecai with his sharp, hunter’s eye, and his birds of prey to carry out his will. Warrior Brick and his augurs, the Slabs, who could see on his behalf. Lilith, the queen, whose eyes of the dawn could see anything. Anything at all.

Brick and Mordecai were there. Mordecai nudged his neighbour, god of warrior’s luck, Axton, and murmured something to him. Axton smirked. Rhys looked at the ground.

Jack pushed through the crowds as Zed and Nina lowered Tim from Rhys’ weakening arms. He gave Rhys a look Rhys couldn’t understand, his lips pinched tight and his brows pulled low. He looked down at his brother and his expression became solid.

“Idiot,” he snapped, pushing Zed away without looking. He grabbed Tim and slung his arm over his shoulder. Tim mumbled something into Jack’s ear. Jack shook his head, casting another unreadable look in Rhys’ direction. He pushed a hard breath through his nostrils and barked at the gawking Olympians to get the fuck out of their way.

They did, although no one looked happy to do so. Jack had that kind of voice. He marched through the streets, turned a corner, and was gone.

The crowd dissolved, but not before a few people shot Rhys knowing looks. Fiona even gave him a thumb’s up. Rhys stood at the gate until there was only one person left behind.

“Dude,” Vaughn said.

Rhys stared at the end of the street, where Tim and Jack had vanished.

“I mean… What happened?” Vaughn asked.

Rhys looked down at his best friend. “My chest hurts,” he explained.

Vaughn frowned. “Are you injured?”

Rhys shook his head, although part of him wondered. “I need to get Gortys. Can you come with me?”

* * *

“So… Why didn’t you kiss him?” Vaughn asked.

Rhys watched as Gortys buried her nose happily into her oat bag. She’d been so relieved, so thrilled to see Rhys and even Vaughn when they descended to find her. So happy that she didn’t even mind riding Vaughn’s wind form back up the mountain. Rhys patted her flank instead of answering the god of commerce’s question.

Vaughn was patient where Rhys was anything but. He waited, watching Rhys expectantly, because he knew Rhys better than almost anyone above or below. He knew how Rhys filled the air with pointless noise, chattering words, when he was content, or desperate to distract, or worried. He knew that Rhys only got quiet when he was frightened of something.

Rhys had told Vaughn what he could about their trip today. Vaughn already knew a little. He knew that Rhys and Tim had gotten closer. Vaughn knew Rhys had found Tim boring before. Vaughn now knew that Rhys didn’t find him boring anymore.

“How much did you see?” Rhys asked.

“No one saw what happened after you fled to your temple,” Vaughn replied. “We saw the second half of the boar fight. It was pretty intense. I wanted to come down and help you, but you broke out before I could. That storm was really something,” Vaughn added with a smile. He knew his friend. He knew that flattery might loosen his nerves.

He was right. “I was scared. I don’t know where it all came from. I just… had to get out of there,” Rhys said.

“You told me that already.” Vaughn’s voice was gentle. “You took him to your temple. And you wanted to kiss him. Why didn’t you?”

Rhys smoothed down Gortys’ grey mane. She flicked her ear.

“I’ve never known you to be shy, dude. Usually, when you see someone you want, you just go for it,” Vaughn went on, a soft pressure that chafed all the same.

Why didn’t he kiss Tim?

He’d wanted to. There was no denying that. Rhys could justify his hesitance to himself by his dedication to his duties, he supposed. He had vowed that he would find Tim a partner, a real mate, his other half. He’d promised this to his boss, and to Lilith herself, and Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to cross the queen.

“It’s complicated,” Rhys said at last, which felt like the truth and a dismissal. He wanted to tell Vaughn his mission—he told Vaughn everything he ever could—but he knew better.

Vaughn waited, his expression open and expectant. Rhys’ resolve began to crumble. He was terrified of Lilith, certainly, but his fear didn’t outweigh his love for his friend. And he needed council.

“I need you to promise me that what I tell you now can’t be repeated to anyone else,” Rhys said.

“I swear I’ll stay quiet,” Vaughn said.

Rhys chewed on his lip. “I don’t even know if I should tell you all the details. I can… maybe talk around it? There’s some stuff I can’t tell you,” Rhys said. Vaughn nodded, patient and encouraging. “I…  I’ve been trying to find someone for Tim. I can’t tell you why, but it’s important.”

“Got it.”

“Well. That’s why.” Rhys turned back to Gortys, his face warming again. “I need him to settle down with one of us. I’ve only been spending time with him lately so I could figure out who might be a good match for him.”

Vaughn waited, but when it became obvious that Rhys was done, he raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said. “So… why didn’t you kiss him?”

Rhys scowled. “I just said.”

“No, you said you were trying to set him up with a partner. That’s nice, but why couldn’t you guys make out?”

Oh, Vaughn was so smart and such a good friend. Rhys looked down at his robes. He’d changed since the boar and the temple, dressed in dark blues and greys. The colour of the sky before and during a storm.

“Seriously, Rhys. I can’t figure it out,” Vaughn said. “What does you kissing him have to do with finding him a partner?”

“He should be with someone who makes him happy,” Rhys said.

Vaughn sighed, and the sound was harsher than Rhys was used to hearing from his friend. “I feel like we’re talking in circles. Kiss him and then find him a partner. What’s the big deal?”

The big deal was that it felt like a threshold, or a line Rhys couldn’t cross. His stomach twisted itself in knots at the thought of it, something that had never happened to him before. Vaughn was right. Rhys always took what he wanted. Even for an immortal, life was too short to deny yourself pleasure.

But kissing Tim wouldn’t just be for pleasure. Never mind how unprofessional it would be, he knew it would be a terrible idea. If he kissed Tim…

Rhys swallowed. He looked at his feet.

“If I kiss him,” Rhys said slowly. “I won’t want to find him a partner.”

Vaughn looked at Rhys. “Okay? So, why is that a problem?” Rhys stared at him, wide-eyed. Vaughn laughed, short and soft. “No, seriously, man. Why would that be bad?”

Because… Because forever was a long time. Because marriage was fine for some, but Rhys had to be sure it was right for him. Rhys could fling people at each other, watch them fall into a happy stupor, wash his hands of the whole thing and walk away. His job was finished when the knot was tied. He didn’t stick around to watch what happened next. He’d never even thought about it.

Spending your whole life with one person… Rhys had always hated people who thought of marriage as a cage, but now that he was staring at the iron bars, he began to wonder if they weren’t maybe onto something.

Tim with his sweet and gentle disposition. Tim who made fun of Rhys, who laughed at Rhys, who did everything Rhys told him to do without much complaint. Tim, who carried Rhys up the side of a mountain, who climbed a tree even though he was clearly terrified of heights, who fought a boar, who'd nearly died…

Tim, who didn’t mind ripping his cloak, losing his sword, his armour, all for someone he barely knew. Nothing he wasn’t willing to give. For Rhys. To Rhys. Tim with his big generous heart.

“I can’t,” Rhys said. Vaughn’s face clouded with confusion. “Bro. I just can’t.”

Tim would want forever. Tim deserved forever. Rhys didn’t know if he was the person who could give him that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, kudos'ing, and most of all, for leaving comments. I love them and I love you. <3


	6. Chapter Six: The Last Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys makes a third and final attempt to pair Tim with an Olympian. Vasquez has a back-up plan Rhys won't like.

Rhys was not surprised to find Moxxi waiting for him upon his return. He was surprised at the way she looked at him. Concerned, but without much warmth. She didn’t even smile.

“Rhys. Sugar. We need to talk.”

He let her inside his private rooms, but she didn’t sit down.

“It's been too long. Lilith is starting to notice. You need to hurry, sweetheart,” she said. Rhys blanched.

“But you said—”

She cut him off without a word, without a gesture. All she had to do was look at him. He fell silent.

“You need to hurry," she said again. "You _need_ to find someone for Tim. Jack wasn’t happy today to see his brother get hurt, and we need them both to be happy. Don’t we?” she asked. She sounded so grave, so serious. Rhys felt tense just listening to her.

He didn’t trust his voice. He only nodded.

“You understand what I’m telling you?” she asked. He nodded again. “Good. Don’t waste any more time. Find him someone tomorrow.”

Moxxi didn’t even raise her voice, but somehow Rhys felt as if she had. He felt as if his own mother had chided him for breaking her favourite mirror. He looked down at the floor while Moxxi swept past. She spared him only a brief touch on his shoulder.

Tomorrow. Rhys’ heart pounded as he fell onto the cushioned stool in front of his vanity. He had no one in mind. He tried to work through his list of eligible suitors, but their faces were blank, and their names lost to him. He put his head in his hands.

Without looking, he opened a drawer and pulled out a sheath of paper, bound in black ribbon. He pulled the ribbon loose and let his eyes focus on the words until his mind felt calm and clear. He read his poems, let the words of his admirer wash over him, until his breathing slowed and he could feel at ease once more.

Tomorrow. Fine.

* * *

Rhys picked Yvette.

He felt a little bad, because Yvette was his friend and, unlike many other Olympians, he tried not to meddle so openly in his friends’ affairs.

Yes, Rhys decided. He only felt a little bad, and that was the only reason why.

Rhys had a hundred justifications for this pairing. He recited them to himself as he sat down beside the scrying pool and called forth Tim’s image.

Tim was a good person. He would be good for Yvette. She'd be lucky to have him. Anyone would.

And Yvette could be kind, in her own way. She wasn’t like Janey, or even Hammerlock. She was demanding, except that word always sounded bad when you applied it to a goddess. She knew what she wanted. She wasn’t shy about asking for it. She could be forthright and confident. She could be hedonistic, and clever, and witty. She was, in short, a little like Rhys.

It was easy to set them up, because Rhys knew exactly where Tim would be.

Tim sat on the low wall in front of the eastern gate, where he’d been sitting all day, and the day before. He looked better. He had colour in his cheeks and a shine to his eyes. He still walked carefully and held himself just so, as if the wrong move could cause him pain, but he was healing. It made Rhys happy to see him under the golden sun, whole and content.

Tim sat in front of the gate, a wrapped package on his lap, and Gortys standing patiently at his side. Waiting, the both of them.

Rhys curled up beside the scrying pool. The birds had things to say to him but he could barely hear their voices. He stared at Tim’s face until his vision blurred.

Yvette found Tim easily, because Rhys had told her where to find him. Yvette, goddess of plenty, goddess of the harvest, was very interested in Tim’s mission to find the famed golden orchid. Rhys watched as Yvette stood in front of Tim, her hands on her hips, doubtlessly laying out exactly why she was interested, what she would like from his search. No one had seen the orchid before. Yvette very badly wanted to be the first. Tim would help her, of course. He would help anyone who asked.

Rhys sniffed and rubbed at his face. Tim stood up and looked at Yvette with a small smile. He nodded at something she said. Tim said something, and whatever Yvette’s reply was made his smile drop. He looked down at his package, his jaw tightening. Yvette said something else. Tim nodded, eyes downcast.

They both set out. Tim looked back once, his expression difficult to see in the light of the setting sun, and then he turned away.

“Good,” Rhys said, his voice hoarse. He sniffed again. “That’s settled.”

* * *

A very long and lonely week passed before Yvette came to find Rhys in his quarters. She was glowing, almost literally. Her brown skin was practically luminous, her eyes bright, lit from a fire from within. Rhys knew the look. He’d seen in on too many faces to count. The flower growing from her chest a spark that illuminated from the inside out.

“I never thought I’d get to say this,” she told him, bouncing a little on her heels. “I think I’m in love.”

Rhys made himself smile. “That’s great.”

Yvette’s glow dimmed. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Of course Rhys was fine. His jaw hurt from clenching. He forced himself to relax. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Girl,” Yvette corrected. “Woman, actually. Goddess. It’s, uh. You’ll laugh, but it’s your friend Fiona. We’ve been talking for a while, but last night after I came back from the forest I met with her and… something just happened between us.” Yvette laughed, almost a girlish giggle that seemed very unlike her.

It was there, in the centre of her chest. As the goddess of harvest, she had several blooms, all packed tightly together. A deep, rich violet and shining bronze. All closed up for the time being, but Rhys knew it would only be a matter of time. A strange feeling of lightness stole over Rhys. It nearly bowled him over.

“Fiona?” he asked, his smile relaxing, stretching. “For real?”

Yvette nodded, beaming at him in return.

“That’s amazing,” Rhys said.

He meant it. He’d never been so relieved.

* * *

Only important things happen in threes. Three times Rhys had attempted to partner Tim with an eligible suitor, and three times those suitors had found love with someone else. Rhys knew there was a significance to the failure of Yvette, even if it didn’t feel like a failure. It did feel like his last chance.

At that realisation, Rhys’ relief evaporated like the last dew of the morning on a hot summer’s day.

This time, it was one of Moxxi’s birds waiting for him on his doorstep. It twitched and tweeted in annoyance at him, informing him that he had been called in to Moxxi’s quarters for a performance review.

Rhys went, although each step he took felt like a heavy burden. By the time he arrived at Moxxi’s garden, Rhys felt exhausted. His heart sank like an anchor down to the bottom of the sea when he saw that it wasn’t just Moxxi waiting for him.

“Ah, there he is,” Vasquez said, voice booming with faux joviality. “Rhys, we were just talking about you.” He looked resplendent as always, dressed in his silk finery and with golden jewellery glittering at his neck, wrists, and fingers.

Moxxi looked unhappy. Her cherry ripe lips made her frown particularly expressive.

“Rhys,” she said, and that in and of itself was a condemnation.

“Give me another chance,” Rhys said, his exhaustion giving way to a fresh wave of fear. Moxxi shook her head.

“You’ve had months, Rhys,” Vasquez said.

“Vasquez won’t get the results you want,” Rhys went on, ignoring him. “You know what happens to the victims of his arrows. You’ve seen how those relationships—” he spat the word. “—end up.”

“Nothing but satisfied customers,” Vasquez said, spreading his sparkling fingers.

“It’s sick what he does to people,” Rhys said.

Vasquez’s perfect shell began to crack. “Ardour isn’t sick, Rhys," he said, the false cheer beginning to strain. "It’s perfectly natural.”

Rhys’ forced a laugh. “Nothing about what you do is natural. Those arrows don’t give anyone a choice. You hijack their emotions. It’s disgusting.”

Vasquez actually began to turn red under his groomed beard. “How dare you—!”

Moxxi pursed her lips. Both gods fell silent.

“I’ve never heard you talk like this before, Rhys,” she said.

“I’ve never liked what Vasquez does. That’s not a secret,” Rhys said.

“Yes, but you’ve never put it such terms before.” Moxxi examined him, her red lips still pursed.

They'd never come to him so clearly before. The thought of Tim on the receiving end of Vasquez's arrows stirred old inspirations. Rhys held her gaze as best he could, while his vision filled with red rage. 

“Your time’s up, Rhys,” Vasquez said, figurative plumage settling. “It’s my turn.”

Rhys turned to him with a sneer, almost relieved to look away from Moxxi’s piercing gaze. “Fine. Shoot him with an arrow. Make him fall in lust.” It hurt even to say it, but Rhys pushed on. “We all know how it’ll end. It’ll wear off. It always does. And then we’ll have a pissed off Titan wondering why his brain fell out of his head for a few weeks. Maybe a month, tops.”

To Rhys’ surprise, Vasquez didn’t look angry. He smiled.

“Ah, Rhys. Rhys, Rhys, Rhys... Rhys. I’m so glad you said that. You said something like that before, all those months ago. Remember? In front of our queen?”

Rhys scowled and did not dignify Vasquez with a response. He crossed his arms.

“See, while you’ve been screwing up and failing, I’ve been thinking over what you said. And you know, for the first time in your life, you were right.” Vasquez clapped his hands together. Rhys furrowed his brow. “I decided that the best way to secure the Titan’s loyalty wasn’t to have him fall into bed with the closest ideal target. A regular coupling just wouldn't do for our special Titan guest. No, the safest and best way forward was to make sure he fell in bed with the _perfect_ target. One who will keep him... forever.”

“Just what the hells are you getting at, Vasquez?” Rhys asked.

Vasquez turned to Moxxi, his face alight with glee. “Can I show him?”

Moxxi nodded, her face unreadable.

Vasquez produced a slim, silver whistle and blew into it. Rhys couldn’t hear the sound it made, but he could feel it vibrating the small bones in his ears. He heard a flutter of wings, a rusting of leaves, and then something stepped onto the path in front of them.

At first, Rhys thought it was statue. It looked so perfect, its face strangely familiar. Its serene and flawless expression broke into a gentle smile. It stepped forward.

It was a beautiful thing, its skin almost pearlescent, its hair falling in dark curls into its high forehead. Its eyes were the colour of a bright and empty sky. It looked lovely. In the centre of its chest, where true love's bloom might otherwise grow, was the jagged teeth of a red and pulsing crystal formation.

Rhys recoiled. Everything about it felt wrong to him. “What the hells is that thing?”

It came up to Vasquez, smiling that same blank smile. Vasquez threw his arm around its small shoulders.

“Isn’t he pretty? I had him made special, just for Tim. See this—” He flicked the crystal, producing a ringing note that made Rhys' teeth ache. “—is made from the same materials as my arrows, but in a far more concentrated and powerful form. That link won’t deteriorate the way it occasionally does when I target other people. Anyone hit with one of my arrows will become enslaved by sweet, sweet love for the rest of their lives to this little peach.” He chucked the creature under its round chin. “Once I hit Tim with one of my specials, he’ll be head over heels for this little guy here for the rest of his immortal existance.”

“That’s not love.” Rhys’ voice was a croak. “That’s… that’s…” All his years as a muse couldn’t prepare him for this. He couldn’t think of enough words to express how hideous the idea of it was. How sick it made him feel.

Vasquez gave him a dry look. “Who are you to say what is and isn’t love? This’ll make Tim happy, which will make our queen happy. Win win for everyone.”

Rhys rounded on Moxxi. “He can’t do this. You can’t let him do this.”

Moxxi’s expression hadn’t changed. “Hugo’s already talked to Queen Lilith. She’s approved his plan.” She didn’t sound happy about it. “It’s going to happen, Rhys.”

Rhys felt as if the world was crumbling under his feet. His vision blurred. He took his boss by her slim shoulders, his hands shaking with urgency.

“Moxxi, please. Please, you can’t let him do this. Tim might be a Titan but he doesn't deserve this.” His voice broke. Moxxi stared back at Rhys, and maybe she looked sorry, or maybe she just looked tired.

“It’s too late, Rhys,” Vasquez said, loud and confident. “This is going to happen. You lost.”

Rhys stared at Vasquez uncomprehendingly. He’d forgotten this was even a battle to win.

Vasquez turned back to the monstrosity he'd created. “Don’t pout. You might’ve screwed up big time, but think of it this way: if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten this little fella built. In a way, you get to play a part in my victory. So in recognition of that, I’ll let you name him.”

The creature turned its face slowly towards Rhys, its expression never flickering. That was when Rhys realised why the thing looked so familiar. Its straight nose, its soft chin, round cheeks and full lips.

It looked like Rhys.

* * *

Rhys wanted to stop it, but Moxxi held him tight while Hugo and the creature marched from the garden.

“Rhys. Rhys.” She said his name over and over while he pulled at her grip. “Rhys, it’s over.”

Tim. Tim with his sweet smile and his generous heart. Tim, who’s finest quality was that he had too many to count. Loyal and brave. Charming and funny. Selfless and honest.

Bound for the rest of his life to something empty. Enslaved to Vasquez’s puppet.

“Rhys, listen to me.” Moxxi pulled him close. She was much stronger than him. “If you fight this, Lilith will hear. Do you understand? If you interfere, it won’t just be a demotion for you. It’ll be the end.”

Rhys stared at her as if she started speaking to him in tongues. For the first time, something like pity showed in her face.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” she said, sounding like she meant it. Her grip slackened. “But this is the way it has to be.”

Rhys broke free before she could stop him. He raced out of the gardens, ignoring her voice calling after him. The guards might come for him. Lilith and her inner court might hear. Moxxi was right; this really could be the end for Rhys. He loved his job. He loved living on Olympus. His steps faltered, but he didn't stop. 

His ran to the eastern gate. He spotted Tim seated there, with Gortys at his side. He was looking away from Rhys, out towards the pink and orange sky beyond the gate. Gortys nudged him with her nose, and he patted her without looking. Rhys froze, rooted to the spot.

Tim looked up and saw Rhys. His expression was like the sun coming out fro behind the clouds. It was almost blinding. He stood.

"Tim!" Rhys rushed forward, feet nearly catching in the hem of his robes.

“Rhys!" Tim raised his hand. His expression shifted to concern when he took in Rhys' appearance. "Are you—?”

No one else but Rhys heard the arrow whistle through the air. When Tim stumbled backwards, no one else but Rhys could see the deep red shaft that now stuck out of his chest, bristling with ruby fletching.

Tim shook his head. He blinked several times. He looked up at Rhys but his gaze slid away, to something over Rhys’ shoulder.

Rhys heard the creature’s footsteps on the path behind him. Resplendent in the light of the rising moon, Vasquez’s simulacrum brushed past Rhys without a second look, a beautiful smile on its perfect face.

Tim stared at it, his brow furrowed. Slowly, he smiled back. When the puppet stepped close enough, Tim took both of its dainty hands in his and kissed it on its full lips.

The arrow shaft pulsed in time with the crystal on the thing’s chest. Tim was finished.

It was over.

* * *

There was nothing else to do. Rhys went home.

The image of Tim embracing that thing followed him all the way to his front door, even as Rhys tried to think of anything else. His mind would not permit him even a moment's rest. Tim's hands on the creature's face. Their shared embrace. The shine of the creature's moonlight skin, and the red pulse of the grotesque thing in its chest. 

A few people tried to wave him down, but Rhys ignored them all. He felt certain if he opened his mouth, he would vomit all over the tiles. Rhys just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a few decades.

When he opened his door, he realised that he would not be sleeping any time soon.

Because Jack was there.

Jack sat at his vanity, staring not at Rhys, but at the book of pressed flowers Rhys kept in his drawer. Rhys stared at him, dumbstruck. It was almost painful. Jack looked so much like Tim.

“You know, I was ready to end this." Jack sounded calm. "I was ready to open that pretty throat of yours all over the floor for what you did to my brother.” Jack sat back, and turned to regard Rhys, his legs stretched out in front of him. He hadn’t taken off his sandals, and it looked as if he’d walked through a muddy field to get to Rhys' home.

“Part of this is my fault, I guess," Jack went on. "I mean, I didn’t stop you. I was _going_ to, but things worked out so nice with me and Nisha that I thought, hells. Why not let Lilith go through with her dumb scheme? You honestly seemed like a harmless idiot, and you got me and Nisha right. I thought maybe you could do the same thing for Timmy. Cause as much as I hate you Olympians and the idea of being subject to one of your stupid plots, I hate the idea of my brother being alone more.”

“Jack,” Rhys tried, but Jack silenced him with a look.

“Shut up. Did I sound like I was finished? I was all set to kill you, remember?” He paused, and Rhys realised he was waiting for an answer. Rhys nodded. Jack turned away and sighed. “But then I found these.” He set his hand down on the pile of papers on his desk, beside the book of Rhys' favourite flowers. A black ribbon coiled at the corner.

Rhys flushed, heart thudding. “Those… Those are mine.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. A vein throbbed on his forehead. “These.” He gripped the papers in one big hand. “Were Tim’s!” He flung them at Rhys, paper spilling and fluttering with a hiss. “He wrote you those stupid poems! He sent you those stupid flowers! You fucking idiot!”

Jack was on his feet, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Rhys knew he was taller than Jack, he knew that Jack wasn’t actually a giant, but in the midst of his towering rage, it was easy to forget. Jack seemed to forget. He loomed over Rhys.

“The poems you kept! The flowers you pressed! If you liked them so much, why didn’t you fucking do anything about it?” Jack’s voice rang off Rhys’ walls, in between his ears. Rhys cowered.

“Because— Because I’m not—”

“Not what? Not interested? Fuck off. Don’t even try to lie to me. I should just fucking kill you for this. For all of this.” He jabbed Rhys in the chest with a finger that felt like a knife. “You fucked this up, Rhysie. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t do the same to you in return.”

Rhys heard paper crinkling. He looked down, and saw Jack standing on his poems.

Anger wormed its welcome way back through the ice that encased Rhys. He looked up at Jack, face hot, planted both hands in his chest and shoved him backwards.

Jack went, more out of surprise than any actual strength on Rhys’ part. Rhys knelt down and started gathering the papers. A few were stained, and some torn, but none were destroyed.

Jack watched him. Rhys expected him to draw his sword any minute. He held his poems against his chest with one hand while the other continued picking up the rest. This wouldn't be the way he would choose to die, but the thought of leaving them on the floor was unbearable.

Finally, Jack sat down. He sighed. “Get up.”

Rhys picked up the last piece of paper before he stood. He tipped his trembling chin up and looked at Jack defiantly. Jack looked back at him, his head leaning against his fist, his other hand dangling off the back of Rhys’ chair.

“Stop crying,” he said. “You need to fix this.”

Rhys wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“I know,” he said.

“It was your buddy Vasquez, right? The guy with the arrows?” Jack asked.

“He’s not my buddy. But yeah. He’s responsible for this,” Rhys said.

“No, he isn’t. He’s just the asshole who pulled it off. You’re the asshole responsible for this.”

Rhys flinched like Jack had hit him, but he didn’t deny it.

Jack rubbed his fingers across his lips and looked into Rhys’ mirror. “Alright. Here’s what I’ve decided. I’m not going to kill you yet. Out of respect for my brother and his frankly awful taste in men, I’m gonna give you a chance to fix this thing. You’ve got ‘til sunset tomorrow to clean up your mess. And if you fail, I’m going to make it a whole lot messier.” He didn’t look at Rhys, but at his own reflection. “I’ll burn Olympus to the ground. I’ll kill everyone and everything living between these walls. I’ll skin that bitch queen alive and when I’m finished with her, I’m gonna come straight for you. I'll save you for last.”

Now he looked at Rhys. Rhys’ throat tightened, as if Jack already had his hands on him.

“Understand? Nod like a good boy.”

Rhys nodded.

“Good.” Jack stood up. “Remember what I said. Sunset tomorrow, pumpkin, or I kill everyone you ever loved. Oh, right. Before I forget…” He knelt down and picked up a wrapped package Rhys hadn’t noticed before. He tossed it onto Rhys’ bed.

“For you. Another gift from Tim. Guess he felt bad about your robes.”

Rhys stared at the package, his throat too tight for him to breathe. Jack slapped Rhys on the shoulder and then he left.

* * *

Rhys didn’t have much time. He cried a little, but he put a quick end to it. No one would benefit from his tears. He thought perhaps he might benefit from getting a few hours of sleep before he started on his plot to save Tim, but after lying in his bed for less than a quarter hour, listening to his heart pound, he gave up. He paced his dark room and tried to think.

His head was a mess. His heart raced and nothing would make it slow. It wasn’t just Jack’s threat that scared him—although it did. It was the thought of Tim out there, spending his night with that… that thing. It twisted Rhys’ insides to think of him kissing those cold lips. Anything would’ve been better than this.

Rhys wiped his face. He paced the length of his room, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t think about what ifs. He needed to focus on what nexts.

He could kill it. Rhys was no fighter, but the puppet didn’t look very strong. Perhaps he could surprise it. Rhys gnawed at his nails.

How would he get close enough, with a weapon in his hand? That thing might not be strong, but Tim was. Tim was fast, Tim was deadly, and Tim was under a sick spell. If he saw Rhys come after the puppet, he might try to stop Rhys. Tim might even try to kill him.

He’d probably succeed. Rhys spat a nail.

Non-violent methods, then.

His circuit brought him back to his bed, where Tim’s wrapped package still sat where Jack had thrown it. Even after climbing into bed and curling around it, Rhys couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

What could he do? He could try seducing Tim, he supposed. The puppet was beautiful, but it was beautiful the way polished marble was beautiful. The way the wintery peaks of the nearest mountain range were beautiful.

Rhys was beautiful, too. He was as warm, soft and inviting as a bed after a night of revelry.

He spat another nail. The magic behind Hugo’s arrows was powerful. Even to Rhys, that crystal in the puppet’s chest felt fearsome. Rhys wouldn’t be able to seduce one of Vasquez's regular thralls away from whoever they'd been forcefully infatuated with. Rhys doubted he would be able to best this puppet. Seduction and lust were Vasquez’s specialities. They were his sphere of influence. Rhys was good, and he was good looking, but no one could take on a god or goddess in their own sphere.

Rhys’ hands moved almost without him noticing. He tore at the paper, splitting the package open. He stared at its contents, a bundle of ash-grey silk. He pulled it out slowly, letting it unroll over his arm.

New robes, of course. Ash-grey, almost black, with golden-dyed trimming and made from fine silk. When he held it up to the light, the fabric shimmered and Rhys’ gaze chased shades of green and blue. The shine like the colour of a peacock’s tail feathers. It was beautiful. It would look amazing on Rhys.

No one could face a god or goddess in their own sphere. If Rhys tried to solve this problem with violence or lust, he would surely fail. He had to play to his strengths. He looked down at the robes in his hands and came to a decision.

* * *

The sight of Gortys standing by the eastern gate, where Tim had left her, made Rhys’ chest ache. He patted her neck and murmured consoling words into her ears. She huffed and pressed her nose gratefully against Rhys’ chest, her big head knocking him back a step.

“Are you okay, girl?” he asked. Gortys raised and lowered her head, in what Rhys could’ve sworn was a nod. “I need to get down the mountain. Can you help me?”

Gortys knelt down and allowed Rhys to clamber up. He still had to stand on the low wall to manage it. She stood and brought him to dizzying heights. He tightened his grip on her reigns, and gave her sides a squeeze. They set off down the road.

The sky had turned from black to iron grey. The sun had begun to inch its golden path over the horizon by the time Rhys approached the barrier. His heart galloped with fear, with everything he was feeling and had been feeling for the last few hours. Gortys kept at her easy trot. When the air began to shimmer and their surroundings wavered, Rhys closed his eyes tight and held his breath.

It was worse without Tim to guide him. Rhys felt the familiar pressure of a hundred unseen eyes on the top of his head, but he felt more besides. The air grew cold and damp, and something kept pulling at the hem of his new robes. Rhys snatched them back without opening his eyes. Something warm and light brushed against the side of his face. He bit his lip, leaned down over Gortys’ neck and urged her forward.

Hands tried to grab at him, pulling on Rhys’ robes like unsupervised children. He felt a cold grip around one ankle, that almost yanked him sideways Rhys grit his teeth, kept his eyes shut, and flattened himself against Gortys. He felt the wind against his face, felt his ears pop, and then they were though on the other side. Rhys let out a breath, sagging over his horse friend with relief.

“Wow.”

Gortys snorted with agreement.

“I’m sorry, Gortys. We had to do it like that,” Rhys went on as they trotted onwards. “It has to be the physical path. It has to be hard. They really do say you can’t find the golden orchid unless you take the long way around.”

Gortys snorted again. Rhys had never before heard something so sincere in his life.

“I’m sorry about what happened to Tim. I’m going to fix it. We’ve got almost twelve hours to find the golden orchid,” Rhys said, shining with the delirious confidence of those who have been awake for far, far too long. “We can do it.”

Rhys retraced their steps as best he could, following the path he, Tim and Gortys had walked previously during their last journey. She knew the way, which helped. She lead them both to the curling stream, to the bend where Tim had tied her reigns to the low branch, left her with a bag of feed, close to the water. Every time they would return, he would give her a carrot.

Rhys left her with the bag of feed Tim must’ve packed for her before… Before. Rhys couldn’t find a carrot anywhere. He would try to find one for her.

He gathered his robes and went into the forest, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. It means a great deal to me. :)
> 
> Also, find me on tumblr. I keep forgetting to mention my tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter Seven: The Golden Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys races against time to find the golden orchid, the key to a romantic gesture that just might save Tim's heart.

Rhys searched all morning, but retracing his steps was much harder than he thought it would be. The forest all looked the same to him, every bend in the path that wasn’t really a path at all, seemed to lead to the same nowhere place. He felt as if he were navigating a sprawling maze. Instead of walls to direct and block his progression, there were trees, there were rocks, there was the rough and treacherous ground. Roots grew in arches above the ground, perfect height for someone to catch their toe and send them falling to the rock-hewn ground. Rhys never fell, but he stumbled often, scraping the skin off his palms as he tried to steady himself against tree trunks, stones, branches, anything.

Rhys couldn’t follow their old path because the forest wouldn’t allow it. There was no old path to follow. Things didn’t exist the way they had before. The forest had changed in the interim, and it was changing still. Rhys worried about finding his way back to Gortys. He worried about finding his way towards anything ever again.

Rhys’ foot caught in the gnarled ground, toe striking a rock buried deep in the forest floor like an iceberg. He stumbled forward, knocking his knee against a turned root. Pain radiated up and down his leg as he straightened up. He spared only a moment to examine the fabric of his robe. A little dirty, but nothing had torn.

This could be how Rhys died, he supposed. Lost and abandoned in the enchanted forest. He tried to think about the last time he’d come out this way, tried to shake out any details he could from the memories. Any landmarks he could recognize.

He thought about turning back into mist and rising into the sky. If he left now, he would be back in time to warn Lilith about Jack’s threats. She might punish Rhys for keeping it from her for this long, but she might be tempted towards leniency. That would’ve been the smart thing, surely.

But… Tim would still be enslaved to Vasquez’s puppet.

Rhys puffed out his cheeks and pushed onward.

It took hours. Rhys counted time only by the sun’s movement above, golden light glittering through the thick green canopy. Rhys had a scrape on his arm. His palms were raw and red. He knew his legs would be a mess of bruises up to his knees. And still, he went on, through the trees and over the soft ground, down sudden slopes and over fallen logs. He walked on until he found a familiar sight.

A long, straight gouge, right through the bark of a massive oak tree. Rhys put his hand against it, drew his fingers across the splintered wood. It was almost chest-level with him.

The ground looked trampled, flattened. Rhys could see more gouges on other trees. He could see where hooves the size of dinner plates had flipped up discs of mud and torn up the moss. Crushed branches and whip-thin saplings snapped in two, now limp and dying on the ground. Rhys rushed forward, which was a bad idea. He slid in the mud, but kept his balance. He found the two trees, once wedged close together, now pried apart and cracked open.

Rhys followed the path of destruction, which wound a dizzy path through the forest. Ripped earth and splashes of brown-red against the curling green leaves of the underbrush. Places where the smaller trees had been pushed aside, nearly knocked over entirely. He held his robes and his breath. Even after two days, the place stank of animal fear. At least, Rhys tried to tell himself, it was a clear path he could easily follow.

When the air began to fill with a dry charge, the trees and all the leaves beginning to waver and shift like a mirage right before Rhys’ eyes, he realised he was walking through another barrier. He stumbled forward, his muscles twitching with fear and exhaustion. Trees were closing in, low branches forming bent archways. Twigs caught on Rhys’ clothes, stuck in his hair. Leaves pressed on his arms, on his legs. The world seemed to contract around him and Rhys wanted to turn around and run. He gathered his robes in one hand and ran forward, onward, through.

The barrier seemed to collapse around him and soon Rhys was on the other side, tumbling forward like a released exhale. He looked behind him, but of course the path looked normal. A simple passage through the trees.

He looked around. He was in a glade, a place tightly contained by the forest like a palm surrounded by curled fingers. The canopy seemed higher here, and the leaves seemed darker. The light that came through felt warm, looked like yellow gold on the ground, on everything it touched. Even Rhys.

In the centre was the largest tree Rhys had ever seen. It reached up to the heavens like an outstretched hand.

Growing out of it, just at eye-level with Rhys, was a bundle of orchids, their petals the colour of gold, streaked with ivory. Rhys stared at it stupidly, his mind still a few steps behind his body, struggling through the barrier.

This was it. It had to be. He stepped forward carefully, treading lightly, and reached out with a trembling hand. The petals felt soft, velvet-smooth and alive. Each flower seemed to glow with its own light, like the sun and the moon in the sky.

Rhys heard a strange sound. Or rather, he heard the cessation of a sound he’d been ignoring. The soft rumbling that’d filled the air since his arrival, the one his mind must’ve filed away as unimportant, as the sound of a nearby brook or perhaps just the sound of the leaves in the wind, had stopped.

Something that Rhys had believed to be a moss covered stone began to move, its hunched back rising to the sky. Its breathing came out ragged, a wet warm slap against Rhys’ face as it turned its head towards him. The massive boar, guardian of the forest, stared down at Rhys with its one remaining eye. Tim’s sword stuck out of its ruined socket, black blood still matting the fur on its snout.

Rhys stared back, his mouth slack and his eyes wide.

This is it, he thought dimly. _This_ is how I die.

The boar snorted, as if it could hear him. It took a step forward and Rhys stepped back out of instinct, without even looking. The boar didn’t open its mouth to show off its large teeth. It didn’t stomp the ground. It stared at Rhys with its one eye and rumbled what might’ve been the last thing Rhys would ever hear.

Rhys had nothing. He had no weapons, and even if he did, they wouldn’t be of any use. Rhys could never use violence to see his way through a situation. His strengths lay in other venues. Venues he believed that would not be remotely helpful now.

Rhys held up his hands, a show of surrender that the boar likely couldn’t understand. He had nothing else to offer. There was nothing left for him. If the boar attacked, it would be all over.

The boar didn’t attack. It continued to stare. Rhys kept his hands up.

“Do you…” Rhys was not surprised to hear how weak and hoarse he sounded. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “Do you need help?” he asked.

The boar lowered its head slowly. Rhys’ heart galloped in his chest, his hands shaking harder than ever, but the boar didn’t charge.

“Is it the sword?” he asked. The boar stared.

Rhys lowered his hands a few inches. His feet felt leaden, his legs like stone. Still, he made himself take as step forward. The boar snorted, a hot gust that blew Rhys’ hair from his forehead.

“I can help you,” Rhys said, his voice cracking. “I can just… get that thing out of you, if… if you want.”

The lid over the boar’s good eye began to list. It rumbled again and slowly, surely, the realization dawned on Rhys that he was not about to be gored to death. The boar didn’t seem interested in trampling Rhys to a paste, or chewing on his bones. It mostly seemed interested in staring.

“I can help,” Rhys said again, reaching out with hands that would not steady.

The boar’s head was almost as large as Gortys. Its one eye was the size of Rhys’ head. One bite would be all it would take to chew Rhys in half. Rhys stepped around it carefully, his blood thundering in his ears. The boar tipped its head to the side, trying to keep its one eye on Rhys while he reached for Tim’s sword.

Was this truly happening? Could this be same boar that had tried with such determination to kill Tim? It stared at Rhys without seeming to blink. As if it could understand him. As if it knew that Rhys was no threat, but he could be an ally.

Rhys spoke before he realised what he was even saying. “It might hurt a little. Or a lot. I’ll do my best to keep it clean. I want to help you. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to die here, if that’s okay with you. I just… I want to get…” His fingers brushed against the ornate pommel. He swallowed, his dry throat clicking. “I’ll do what I can to make this painless. I promise.”

He stepped closer and wrapped both hands around the hilt. He took a breath and then another. The boar watched him, its sides heaving as if it were running. Rhys tightened his grip, cast one look at the boar’s massive face, braced his heels into the soft earth and pulled.

The boar screamed. Rhys screamed too, his ears ringing. The sword slid out, and Rhys’ feet slipped over the moss and mud. He fell backwards, hitting the ground hard while the boar lurched to its feet. It stomped through the glade, one hoof slicing the soft soil inches from Rhys’ face. Rhys curled up, holding the bloody sword to his chest with both arms, his head tucked between his knees. The boar stormed around him, its voice like thunder and its hooves striking the ground like lightning.

And then it faded. Rhys didn’t relax. He lay in a trembling ball in the dirt for several long moments, his muscles locked with the terror still thrumming through him like a second pulse. He could hear only his own breathing, fast and shallow, and see only the lights dancing in the black of his closed eyes.

A hand gripped his arm. Rhys screamed.

“Rhys!”

Rhys snapped up at the sound of that familiar voice, his eyes wide and wild when they fixed onto that familiar face. Tim stared back at him, his thick brows furrowed.

For a moment, Rhys felt overwhelmed. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around Tim’s shoulders, bury his face in his neck.

I was so scared, but I just kept thinking about you, he wanted to say.

He didn’t. Rhys still had the sword in his arms, but that wasn’t what stopped him. It was the pulsing, red glow in Tim’s chest. The arrow’s shaft stuck out from his heart, its glow visible in the shine of Tim’s glazed eyes.

“Are you okay, Rhys?” he asked but his voice was all wrong. It was like before, when the boar had stopped snoring. Rhys didn’t realise the absence until it was all he could hear. The soothing tenor of Tim’s voice, now robbed of something it once had.

It was gone from his face, too. It’d been leeched out of him, and when he looked at Rhys it was as if he were looking through a window.

Rhys wanted to cry. He nodded and looked away.

Tim helped him to his feet, holding Rhys’ arm the way he might’ve held anyone’s. He dropped it as soon as he could, not out of disgust or discomfort, but simply because he didn’t need to hold it anymore.

“Tim,” Rhys said, his voice trembling. “How did you find me?”

Tim wasn’t paying attention. His gaze dropped down to Rhys’ arms. “Is that my sword?”

“I— Yes. I found…” Oh. Oh shit. Rhys looked around, the danger of his situation impressing itself upon him once more.

“The boar,” he said, his voice a croak. “Where did it go?”

Tim looked around as if he might spot it beyond the wall of green, grey, and brown that surrounded them. Their glade was so small, Rhys wondered how that creature was able to fit into it in the first place. He might’ve wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing, if it weren’t for the half-circles of mud sliced from the ground by its rampage, and the bloodied sword in his arms. Rhys looked down at where he’d curled up, at the holes stamped into the ground around his fragile head, his body.

“Tim?” A voice like bird song, high and pure. A voice that didn’t sound like what anyone could ever sound like, whether they be mortal or immortal. Something too sweet, like the voice you hear inside your head when you read a poem.

The puppet stepped from the barrier and into the glade. It brought with it a soft light that seemed to come from within, that mother-of-pearl shine on its smooth and featureless skin. Skin like flower petals, and likely just as soft. It blinked its big, pretty eyes, eyes so blue they almost looked lavender, its long, thick lashes a dark sweep across its round, pink cheeks.

Rhys tightened his grip on Tim’s sword. The sight of that creature incited more violence in his soul than the boar ever did.

“Oh.” Tim’s whole expression went soft, the way dead things go soft when left in the sun. “I told you to stay out there, Anthios. It’s dangerous here.” Tim’s voice sounded as if he were speaking in his sleep.

The creature— _Anthios_?—set one dainty foot in front of the other, stepping into the glade as if it were walking into a warm bath. Its white robe swept the ground at its feet, somehow undamaged and unblemished. Perfect as the rest of him.

Rhys resisted the urge to look at his own robes. He definitely did not think about what he must’ve looked like, caked in mud and dirt, hands streaked with old and new blood. At least none of it was his.

The puppet stepped into Tim’s embrace like stepping through an open door. Its smile didn’t change, not a single twitch of any muscle on its face, as it looked into Tim’s eyes. Rhys wanted very badly to run it through then and there. He held the sword in his shaking hand.

“I missed you,” the thing said, soft and pleasant. “I get lonely when you aren’t around.”

Rhys’ heart lurched. Tim deserved to hear those words. He deserved to hear them every day, but not from this empty thing.

“Did you find my orchid?” it asked.

Tim blinked a few times. His whole expression seemed to slacken the longer he stared at the puppet. He gave his head a light shake.

“I… Yes. Yes, I think I did,” he said, nodding towards the golden flowers. The puppet giggled and kissed Tim’s forehead.

“Good. Let’s take it and leave. I want to get you alone. I miss you.” Each word like pulling petals off of a blossom, tossed without care at Tim’s feet.

“It’s not yours.” The sound of Rhys’ voice surprised everyone, including Rhys.

The puppet turned its gemstone eyes onto Rhys’ face and Rhys had to resist an animal urge to attack. He wanted to claw and bite, wreck that perfect face. Nothing that looked like that should’ve been walking around under the sunlight. Everything about it was wrong.

Rhys drew himself up, and he felt he must’ve looked far more impressive than usual, mud-splattered robes aside. The sword in his hand made him feel powerful.

“It isn’t yours either,” the creature said. It always sounded like it was about to start laughing.

“The hell it isn’t,” Rhys snapped. “Finders keepers.”

Tim’s brow furrowed, bringing definition back to his expression. He almost looked alive again. “I helped you find it.”

“Not today, you didn’t,” Rhys said.

“But…” Tim looked around the clearing. He looked almost lost. “Before. Before I did. I helped you every day. I… I was with you every day.” He gave his head another shake. “Don’t be difficult, Rhys.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Rhys said.

“Try,” Tim snapped.

“No thank you.”

“That’s—“ Tim broke off with a laugh, and it sounded real. He had started to sound like himself. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said ‘thank you’ to me.”

Oh. That was probably true. Rhys didn’t avert his gaze, even as his stomach gave a weak quiver from guilt.

“I should’ve said it before,” Rhys admitted. “I should’ve said a lot of things before.” He swallowed.

Tim huffed and leaned back on the balls of his feet, his hands on his hip. Expectant.

“I’ll start with thank you,” Rhys said. He could hear the strength failing in his voice, the words thin from travelling through his tight throat. “Thank you for saving me from the barrier and helping me up the mountain before. Thank you for packing lunch for us both every day. Thank you for introducing me to Gortys. Thank you for helping me through the forest. Thank you for saving my life.” Now his voice trembled. He held the sword like a lifeline.

Tim stared at him, frowning with almost every muscle in his face. Rhys felt that urge again, to close the distance between them. To press his thumb against the wrinkle between his brows, run his fingers through Tim’s thick hair. To kiss him, like he should’ve kissed him before. He took a step forward before he realised he was even moving.

Tim leaned back, but he didn’t move. Rhys took another step.

“Thank you for the poems,” he said. “And for the flowers. I loved them all.” That word caught in his throat. Rhys expected it to hurt, but it didn’t, not at all. “I’ve kept them. All of them. They mean so much to me. Everything you’ve done… And!” Rhys stopped and plucked at his robe. “For this, too. I love it.” Easier to say the second time. Rhys felt like a musician warming up for the show.

“Rhys…” Tim’s brows were knotted together. He looked Rhys up and down, wearing an expression like he was trying to remember something important.

Rhys stepped within arm’s length and without seeming to notice, Tim reached out.

“Timothy.” The creature wrapped its hand around Tim’s wrist and pulled it gently down. It leaned into Tim’s space, over his shoulder, spilling white and red light down Tim’s neck, his chest. “Timothy.” It sighed again, brushing its lips against Tim’s ear.

The tension melted from Tim’s face, replaced with that decaying softness. “Okay,” he said. He smiled, red light gleaming on his teeth. “Okay. I’ll get it.”

Tim stepped forward. Rhys did as well, putting himself between Tim and the flowers.

“I thought you would want to see it,” Rhys said quickly. “I wanted to find it for you. I wanted to give you something back.” He grabbed Tim’s arm. Tim stared at his hand. “I got your sword for you. I wanted… I wanted you to know how grateful I am.”

“Okay,” Tim said. He gripped Rhys’ wrist and pulled his hand free, already turning towards the orchids. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” the creature said in its voice like a laugh. Rhys stared at the back of Tim’s head, stricken. Tim reached up for the flowers, a paring knife in his hand.

“Rhys, thank you so much.” The puppet moved closer, its robes slithering across the fallen leaves. It touched Rhys with one ivory white hand, resting gently on Rhys’ arm.

“Will you bless our union?”

Rhys cut off its head.

* * *

Rhys had always thought it would be difficult. That you had to be strong to cut someone like that. As it turned out, it wasn’t hard at all. Rhys just had to swing. Tim’s blade was kept in excellent condition, Titan metal sharp enough to split hairs. It whispered through the air, through the creature’s long and delicate neck.

Rhys would remember that sound forever. The muffled thump of the head hitting the ground, rolling away. The sound of the body falling after it, first on its knees and then fully onto the ground, unfolding. He’d hear it for years and years, he imagined. He would hear it every time he closed his eyes before sleep.

“No!” Tim rushed forward, shoving Rhys aside. Rhys stumbled, until his back hit the tree. He could see the glow of the golden orchid in his periphery.

He knelt beside the thing’s white body. “No, no, no. Anthios, no…”

The arrow’s shaft pulsed. It splashed wave after wave of red light up his face, veins spreading through his chest like hairline cracks in a smashed mirror. They crawled over his skin, up his neck. The crystal on the creature’s chest seemed to beat in tune. Red light spilled across the puppet’s body like blood, spidery veins travelling down its doll arms, its legs, up its neck. Its neck. Its neck, which ended in a suddenness that made Rhys dizzy, made his vision skip.

“Rhys.” Tim looked at Rhys, looking like a lost child. “Rhys… How could you?”

And then he changed.

Tim stood up, his expression twisting. “ _How could you_?” He pulled his bow from his back. “ _How could you_?” He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and pulled the string taut.

Rhys’ eyes widened, his gaze drawn to the arrow’s tip. “Tim?”

“You killed him,” Tim said and fired.

* * *

The arrow sang through the air. Rhys flinched, shut his eyes, his body taking over where his mind had gone blank. He heard the _thok_ of it striking home, and felt nothing.

I must be dead, he thought, his eyes pinched shut. And then he thought, If I’m dead, how am I thinking?

He opened his eyes.

The arrow was a blur in the corner of his eye, still vibrating gently from the impact into the tree. Inches from Rhys’ face. He turned his head slowly, stunned with adrenaline and disbelief, to see what could’ve killed him.

Tim had missed.

Tim had missed?

Tim stared at Rhys, at the arrow, his red eyes wide, his arms shaking where they still held the bow, still poised from the second he’d let loose the arrow. With trembling fingers and aching slowness, Tim reached for his quiver, pulled another arrow free.

“Tim, please,” Rhys said.

Tim shook his head. He moved as if he were under water. The red veins that ringed his face gave a sickening pulse. He raised his bow.

“Tim, that thing wasn’t real. What you’re feeling isn’t real. It’s what Vasq— It’s what _I’ve_ done to you, and I’m sorry.” Rhys’ eyes were brimming, but he held back. “I’m so sorry. You deserve better than this.”

Tim shook his head again, as if Rhys’ voice was an insect buzzing around. He nocked the arrow, pulled the string taut.

“Look.” Rhys turned his head to the side. He brushed his fingers against the orchids growing around the trunk. “Tim, look. I wanted to find it for you. I had planned to pick it, to give it to you. The whole reason I kept looking all this time is because I liked spending time with you. I want to spend more time with you.”

Tim stared down the shaft. Rhys swallowed.

“Tim. I love spending time with you.” His voice flagged, weakened by Tim’s flat, red eyes. Rhys took a long breath. He’d stalled long enough. Time for the big show.

“Tim. I love you.”

As soon as he said it, Rhys knew it was true. It was as if those words were a key, and every confusing feeling he’d been running from, all those strange shivers, all those fears that seemed to grow from nothing, it all coalesced, its meaning understood. Heavens above and around him, he’d fallen in love somehow. How could he have missed it?

Tim fired. Rhys didn’t even have time to flinch. The shaft pierced the wood, further than the last one from Rhys’ face.

Rhys looked at it, the thin wood still trembling with the impact, and took a steadying breath.

“Tim. You can’t do it, can you?” he said.

Tim drew another arrow. His nostrils flared.

“You can’t,” Rhys said, voice growing stronger with confidence. “You can’t.”

Tim fired. Rhys didn’t bother to flinch. The arrow hit the wood with a _thunk_ , its path grazing the tip of a petal. Tim couldn’t even hit the orchids, Rhys realised. He wouldn’t even do that.

“Oh, Tim.” Rhys stepped forward while Tim reached for another arrow, his fingers trembling. His red eyes looked wet and his chest heaved with shaking breaths. It almost sounded like he was sobbing.

Rhys heard a strange sound, just above the noise of his feet and robes dragging across the leaves, over Tim’s harsh and hitched breathing. A sound like something snapping. When Rhys looked down, he saw the crimson arrow in Tim’s chest had begun to splinter.

Rhys had never seen that before. Hope began to overwhelm his fear. He stepped closer, even as Tim nocked his fourth arrow.

“Tim, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Tim’s voice sounded ragged. “You killed—“

“It was never alive. It wasn’t even real,” Rhys said. He was close enough now that he could reach out and touch Tim. He did so, brushing his fingers against Tim’s hand, the one wrapped around the bow, the one whose fingers held the arrow against the string.

The crimson arrow cracked again, and when Rhys looked down he could see it had begun to split into two. Something had begun to grow in its place. Thin, white tendrils emerged as Rhys watched. Small, golden leaves began to unroll before his eyes.

Rhys curled his hand around Tim’s. He lowered Tim’s bow. Tim, face wet with tears, chest shaking with too hard, too fast breaths, let him.

“Rhys?” He looked so lost. The red arrow pulsed again, but the light it sent out like a wave was weak. It slapped at Tim’s chin, but it got no further. The veins had begun to recede.

Rhys could’ve laughed. He knew how this story ended. He knew it from his days as a muse, how all good romances would end. Emboldened, with the bow lowered and Tim looking so confused, so ready to be free, Rhys stepped forward, until his face was inches from Tim’s. He cupped Tim’s face.

Tim flinched, gasped, like the air had been punched out of him. He stumbled back from Rhys, as if he’d been shot.

And then Rhys saw that he had been.

A fresh red arrow, pierced right through the centre of the broken one. The white vines that had been struggling through began to shrink and wither, as if struck by the first frost.

Behind him, the puppet sat up. Red infection spread through its limbs, light oozing down its body, up its severed neck. Rhys stumbled backwards.

Tim’s lids fluttered. He opened his mouth once, and Rhys saw the veins travel with renewed strength to his lips, and inside.

Another strike. Tim’s whole body flinched with it, and another arrow sat in his chest, at an angle to the first. And then another, and another.

When Tim looked up there was nothing in his eyes but red. The nest of arrows like a second heart, a deep red that was almost black, stuck out from his chest. Light thick like spilled blood on the battlefield, splashed up and down his body.

Behind him, the puppet searched with delicate hands through the underbrush. Looking, Rhys realised with a surge of nausea, for its fallen head.

Rhys realised he still had Tim’s sword. He could feel its cold weight in his hands, the heft of it, like a reminder.

He was a fool to forget. There was another way this story could end.

“You…” Tim’s hands were steady when he raised his bow, took aim at Rhys’ face. At this distance, there would be no twitch of consciousness to save Rhys’ life. At this distance, he would not miss.

The puppet brushed its fingers through the fern leaves, its pale fingers flashing through the green ground, sightless and searching.

Rhys launched himself forward. The sword hit the ground with a clang of metal, bouncing against half-buried stone. It happened slowly, or it seemed to Rhys. He ducked under Tim’s bow, under the arrow aimed for his head. He heard it whistling through the air as Tim released it, heard the string snap forward, heard him breathing. He tackled Tim to the ground, knocking the air from both their lungs. The puppet’s movements were a white-red blur in Rhys’ periphery, but he ignored it.

He wrapped both hands around the arrows sticking out of Tim’s chest, gathering as many of the shafts as he could, and pulled.

It was difficult. The arrow heads were nestled deep, stuck behind Tim’s ribs, and Rhys had very little leverage. The fletching cut into the soft skin of his left hand, and it soon became slick with blood and sweat. Slowly, achingly, Rhys could feel the arrows begin to slide free.

Tim reached out one hand, flailing up towards Rhys’ face, grasping for his neck. Rhys pulled his head back, but he couldn’t escape Tim’s grip. He wrapped his big hand around the base of Rhys’ neck, pressed his thumb into the soft dip between Rhys’ collar bones. His other hand flew to Rhys' left arm, gripped the soft bicep. 

Tim arched his back as Rhys pulled with all the strength his arms could afford him. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, threw his head back and screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys said, his voice barely audible over Tim’s. Sweat stung his eyes, stung the fresh cuts in his hands, and Tim’s fingers dug bruises into his soft arm, but Rhys knew better than to stop. He braced his knee on the ground beside Tim and pulled, his whole body rising. The arrows jerked in his grip, and it was only through the power of his mechanical arm that he could get them another inch loose.

Unnoticed by both god and Titan, dark clouds began to gather in the sky above them, crashing together to become darker clouds, cutting off the light. The wind picked up and brought the scent of rain whipping through the glade.

“Rhys…” Tim’s voice was wrecked, his hair falling loose across the ground and his forehead in chestnut strands. His fingers tight on Rhys’ arm, his neck and shoulders. “Rhys.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’ll be over soon.” Rhys’ arms had begun to shake with the strain. His flesh hand burned, his chest aching. When the first drop hit the back of his neck, he barely noticed. He grit his teeth and heaved, pulling the bundle out another shuddering inch. Tim’s chest juddered, his jaw clicking shut. His hand slipped down Rhys’ neck to his shoulder.

Behind them, unseen and uncared for, the puppet blinked with its eyes, flexed its jaw. It touched the seam of its neck with light, fluttering fingers.

Tim whimpered through clenched teeth as Rhys pulled. The rain began to fall in earnest, hissing down in sheets.

The puppet stood gracefully to its feet, its figure shining like a pillar of crimson and ivory in the grey gloom, between the pouring rain. It looked over to Tim, to its beloved, on the ground with a titled head.

It knelt down. Without looking away from his beloved’s twisted and pained expression, it picked up the fallen sword.

Rhys could feel the arrows giving way. He could swear they had begun to splinter under the strength of his mechanical hand. He didn’t know what would happen if they broke off inside of Tim’s chest. He hoped they would all fall apart, their power cut off. He hoped that they would dissolve, and this could end, and he and Tim could talk. Rhys wanted nothing more for their future than a conversation. Just one and he could be happy. 

Tim opened his eyes. Pain-glazed, they focused on something over Rhys’ shoulder.

Rhys didn’t know what happened next. One moment he was on top of Tim, pulling at the bundle of arrows while rain drummed around them, and the next their positions were reversed. He was on the ground, in the mud, with Tim covering him and the arrows had slipped from his hands.

And then Rhys saw the puppet, a beacon of light in the gloom, with Tim’s sword in both its little hands. It had nothing on its face, nothing behind its red eyes. It raised the sword again.

Rhys didn’t even see Tim move. He felt his sudden absence, and that was his only warning for the violence to come.

Tim tackled the creature to the ground. He slammed his fist into its perfect face again and again. The puppet didn’t fight. It lay limp in the muck as Tim pummelled it, as its face collapsed under his fists. It didn’t bleed. It just… broke.

Rhys picked himself up, his flesh arm trembling with the strain to support himself. 

Tim sat back, panting. The red mess in his chest cast everything in a sickly glow, but it was weakening. Each pulse like the slap of waves against a shore when the tide pulled back. The veins thinned and vanished, their reach coming no further than Tim’s jaw, and then his neck, and then the ridge of his collar bone. He looked over to Rhys, his eyes heavy-lidded and his arms limp at his sides.

“Well.” His voice was more exhale than sound. “That was… Something.”

Rhys didn’t respond. He was staring at Tim’s chest.

The arrows were falling like twigs from a dead tree. Something had started to grow in their place. White tendrils crawling from under the mass, growing thicker as Rhys watched. Golden leaves unfurling.

Tim pushed himself up, stumbling to his feet. “Rhys?”

Rhys looked up. The last of the arrows had fallen away, pushed out and fading long before they hit the ground. Wrapped around Tim’s chest as if it were a trunk, a white bud appeared, wreathed with golden leaves. It cast his face in its soft light. Even in the rain, it looked luminous.

Tim held out his hand. Rhys stared at it. He could see something else glowing, just in the periphery of his vision. Something golden, something below his own chin.

He swallowed, and took Tim’s hand. A moment later, he gathered the clouds around them both. A moment after that, only the broken doll remained in the glade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again and always for reading and leaving comments. I love them and you.
> 
> find me on tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter Eight: The Perfect Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe at last, Tim and Rhys talk. Once they return home, they face the music and an angry Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i nearly forgot to post this whoops.

Fog unrolled like a carpet across the temple’s stone floor, stirring in the wind from the storm now settling outside. The rain that had pounded the ceiling fell back to a sullen drumming. The worst of the storm had passed, depleted over the plains.

Tim lay at the foot of the stone dais, staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling without the violence of before. Just a simple, steady rhythm. Rhys reached down with hands of mist, which became warm and solid by the time he placed them on Tim’s head, cupping his jaw and neck. Tim’s whole expression sharpened as Rhys formed beside him. He didn’t flinch at the sudden appearance. He just watched Rhys.

“What the hell just happened?” he asked.

Exhaustion and giddy relief were a potent cocktail, sloshing like too much wine in Rhys’ head. He giggled, rubbing the water from his face with one hand.

“A lot,” he said. “A lot just happened. I don’t know where to start. I’m still getting over the fact that we weren’t trampled to death by the boar.” He giggled again, the sound watery and strangled. Tim frowned.

“The boar? _The_ boar? Was it—?“ He stopped himself and rubbed at his wet forehead. He sighed and let his eyes slip closed.

He didn’t speak, and that was fine by Rhys. Tim was here, he was whole, he was safe in Rhys’ temple, lying at the foot of his statue, amongst the flowers and offerings Rhys’ dedicated followers had left for them.

Perhaps the priests and augurs had read the signs, seen the shape of the future among the clouds, because Rhys noticed that there were cushions left among his gifts. Rhys picked a few that were close and slipped one under Tim’s head.

He placed another one beside Tim and settled himself at his side.

“I remember waiting for you,” Tim said at last. “And then I saw that… I’d thought he was— _it_ was someone I knew. Someone I cared about.” Wrinkles built up on Tim’s forehead, a tight line between his brows. Rhys pushed a few locks of his hair away, ran his fingers over those lines until they began to smooth.

“It was a monster,” Rhys said.

“It feels like a nightmare,” Tim said. He began to relax under Rhys’ touch. “I’ve never felt anything like that before. It felt… sick.”

Rhys kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said. Tim pushed out a soft breath.

“Heavens above, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before today,” he said.

Rhys frowned, although he knew it was true. He ran his fingers through Tim’s damp hair, pushing it back into shape. Tim sighed under his ministrations. He wrapped one arm around Rhys’ waist, his hand warm even through the damp silk of his robes.

“Sorry about your gift,” Rhys said, because he might as well continue the trend. Tim murmured something as his fingers traced circles onto Rhys’ hip bone. “I wanted to wear it when I presented you with the orchid. I thought it would be romantic.”

“It probably would’ve been,” Tim said. His eyes were closed again. The lines in his face relaxed. “I’ll get you another set.”

Rhys pressed his lips lightly against his temple. “You don’t have to,” he said.

“I want to. I want to give you nice things.”

“You’ve given me plenty.” Rhys kissed him again, closer to the shell of his ear. “I liked the poems. And the flowers.” Tim opened his eyes, meeting Rhys’ gaze. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner that you were the one who sent them.” He dropped another kiss, closer to the corner of Tim’s eye. “Why didn’t you?”

Tim looked uncomfortable. “I was trying to be romantic.”

Rhys laughed, resting his forehead against the side of Tim’s rapidly warming face.

“Secret admirers are very romantic,” Tim grumbled.

Rhys kissed the tip of his nose. “Sure. Very romantic.” He tried to sit up, but Tim caught his arm.

Tim didn’t laugh. He stared up at Rhys. Rhys sobered in response. Tim likely had several questions for him, he knew, and Rhys’ answers wouldn’t put him in the best light. He was ready for it, or so he told himself. He was ready to face the consequences of everything he’d done to Tim.

“You said you loved me,” Tim said.

“Right,” Rhys said, relaxing into Tim’s grip. Was that all? That felt like the smallest thing Rhys had said all day, although he knew it wasn’t. It was as if Rhys had been reporting on the colour of the sky, or the way water felt against his skin. Old news. Obvious. He kissed Tim’s cheek.

Tim cupped Rhys’ face with his other hand, pulling his attention back up. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Rhys said, without hesitation.

Tim’s expression went soft, but it wasn’t the slack look that washed over his face when Vasquez’s puppet called for him. It went soft the way the light became soft when Rhys turned down his lantern for the night. The way Rhys’ bed felt softest when he crawled into it after a long day. The softness in the sound of rain, the softness of flower petals.

“Really?” Tim asked, quiet.

Rhys leaned down and kissed him.

Rhys felt glad _this_ was their first kiss. If it he’d missed his chance before, at least he’d gotten this instead. Tim’s lips were soft, and they were warm, and when he finally started to kiss Rhys back, it was sweet and gentle. Rhys felt reminded of that first time Tim had touched him, after Rhys had twisted his ankle. The way he treated Rhys as if Rhys were something precious, delicate.

Tim sat them up, the hand holding Rhys’ hip squeezing. He traced his fingers down Rhys’ chin. Rhys shivered.

This wasn’t quite like anything he’d felt before. Rhys knew lust, knew the appetites of the flesh. This felt like that, and it felt like something else, too. He felt like a fire was being stoked inside of him, coaxed into life.

When they broke apart at last, Tim looked dazed. “That’s, uh.” He cleared his throat. “That was nice.”

Rhys hummed, kissed the corner of Tim’s lips, nudging his nose against Tim’s.

“I think we should talk about this,” Tim said as Rhys began to kiss his jaw. Rhys hummed again, a vague noise of agreement buzzing against the underside of Tim’s chin. “I think it’ll be a long talk.”

“Okay.” Rhys left open mouthed kisses down his neck, too lost in the building pleasure humming through him. Everything that had happened before felt like an aberration, a bad dream. How could he have ever felt so frightened? This was where he belonged, here in this moment, inside his temple, under the flickering light of the priests’ candles. This was where he should remain, at least for a few hours.

“The other Olympians… They saw us before, didn’t they?” Tim’s voice sounded strained. Rhys mmhmm’d as he licked a stripe up to Tim’s ear. He could feel Tim’s jaw flexing. “Can they see us now?” he asked through grit teeth.

“No,” Rhys breathed his answer across Tim’s warm skin.

Tim exhaled slowly. “Good,” he said, voice filled with dark promise.

A hand slipped under Rhys’ robes, between his legs, hot and big on the inside of his thigh. Another began peeling his sodden clothes back from his chest, down his shoulder. Rhys shuddered when he felt Tim’s breath against his chest, felt his hair brush against the underside of his chin. He guided Rhys back down, into their bed of flowers, where it was very romantic indeed.

They didn’t get up until the candles burned down.

* * *

At Tim’s request, they would not take Rhys’ raincloud cloak all the way back up to Olympus. It was a close thing, and Tim was briefly tempted when Rhys pointed out that it would be the most expedient way to get them both home, and within reach of their bed. It didn’t matter which bed. All that mattered was that they would both be there.

“I want you in _my_ bed,” Tim had said, his breath like a furnace against Rhys’ arched neck. “I want you to smell like my blankets, my pillow, my oils.” Tim’s voice sounded strained, like a note held too long. Rhys had opened his sweet mouth and Tim hooked his thumb inside, running around his lower lip, wet and bitten-red. “I want you, Rhys. You, you, you.”

Mine, mine, mine, Rhys thought as he took Tim’s fingers into his mouth.

They took their sweet time, and that was exactly how Rhys thought of it. Sweet. It was sweet and soft, even when it wasn’t. Even when Rhys’ back had a line of bruises like a ladder from the steps Tim lay him out on. The pillows and flowers were soft, but they weren’t enough and the stone got to their backs eventually.

For the return trip, they compromised. Rhys took them from the temple to the base of Olympus, to the road that would lead them towards the sunrise gate. Tim looked a little green when they landed, but his expression cleared when Rhys took his hand and kissed the back of his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Tim just smiled.

Rhys didn’t know it could be like this. The knowledge of it, of what Tim could look like, how he could look at Rhys, spoiled him. He never wanted to know anything else. Anyone else. It wasn’t as frightening as he thought it would be.

They walked back up to Olympus, and Rhys told Tim the story. He told him about his mission, about how frustrated he’d become, watching Tim knock down every person he’d set up for him.

“I had started to wonder if maybe you weren’t even interested in romance at all,” Rhys admitted. Tim laughed. “I suppose I know better now.”

“I was spending all my time trying to write poetry,” Tim said, with a rueful shake of his head. “All those hunting trips with Hammerlock, I was just looking for flowers. Or going to the towns to buy the more exotic ones. He humoured me for a long time.”

“Did he know who they were for?” Rhys asked.

“I didn’t tell him, but he knew I had someone particular in mind. I think he figured it out, though. I was only looking for pink and white flowers,” Tim said.

“Did Janey know? And Athena?” Rhys couldn’t explain why he was suddenly so curious. How many people had kept this from him? This pure joy he could’ve been hoarding for days, now. Weeks. If he were not so currently over the moon, he might be tempted to exact some form of revenge.

“Janey knew I was writing poetry, but I never told her who it was for. Athena knew I had my eye on someone. I don’t think either of them ever figured it out, unless they compared notes with Hammerlock.” Tim scratched behind his ear. “But I doubt it. They’ve all been pretty preoccupied lately.”

Rhys reached over and peeled a white rose petal from the back of Tim’s neck. Tim smiled when he caught sight of it, his eyes twinkling.

“I’m gonna be peeling petals off for days,” he said, not sounding remotely sorry.

Good, Rhys thought. He pulled Tim close and kissed him.

The sun had risen by the time they arrived at the gates. Rhys’ giddy elation faded at the sight of Lilith’s personal guards standing sentry. Their clay faces turned towards Rhys as they approached. Tim’s grip on Rhys’ hand tightened, his other hand falling at his hip for the sword they’d both forgotten in the golden orchid’s glade. He looked momentarily lost, but no less determined.

“Ayy, there’s the lovebirds!” Mordecai called out jovially. He and Brick lumbered into sight, Mordecai with the flush of a late night drinking session still on his face, and Brick with a hand of cards clutched in one meaty fist. Had they been waiting up?

Mordecai held out his arms, as if he were about to give them both a hug. He didn’t come any closer, merely grinned at them from behind the wall of automatons employed to keep Olympus safe from its residents.

“How’d you like the storm? I thought it gave everything a real dramatic touch,” he said. “I wanted to fling some lightning around, but Zer0 kept telling me I’d set the whole forest on fire.”

“As if that wouldn’t have been cool,” Brick rumbled.

“We should’ve herded that boar back to the clearing. Really amped up the drama,” Mordecai said.

Tim said nothing. His expression had turned to stone. Rhys kept his hand, holding tight. He felt like the only tether keeping the Titan from acting on his brother’s threats.

“So. Did you two have a nice time in the temple?” Brick asked with a filthy grin.

“We did,” Rhys said, sounding bored. “Is there a reason to all this or can we keep going? You’re kind of in our way and I was planning on having a lot more fun today.”

Mordecai laughed, while Brick only snorted. “Sorry, love birds. The Queen’s requested to see both of your asses in the throne room, pronto.”

“Am I in trouble?” Rhys did his best to sound unaffected, but he even he could hear the trembling sliver of fear in his voice. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Lilith would be unhappy with this turn of events. Tim was in love with an Olympian. What did it matter how they’d both gotten there?

But then, Rhys recalled telling Tim everything. Sabotaging Vasquez’s hideous plan. Disobeying both Lilith and Moxxi’s orders.

Yes, he was likely in trouble.

“Come on, then.” Mordecai gestured lazily down the road that would lead them all to the palace. “It’s getting late. Or early, I guess. We all wanna go to bed.”

Rhys sighed, like this was all a great inconvenience and not a threat to his livelihood and his life. He stepped forward, only to have his arm jerk.

Tim held his hand still, and he would not move.

Brick stopped. “What’s the hold up?”

“Get a move on, Titan,” Mordecai said. “Chop chop.”

Would Tim need a weapon, against the clay pot guards and two of Lilith’s finest? He was supposed to be a terror, a perfect soldier. He and Jack were the reasons Olympus had been in shaking in its boots over a possible war. Rhys did not doubt Tim’s strength, and he was no expert in these matters, but he did not care for these odds.

“Tim,” he said quietly, giving his hand a gentle tug. “It’ll be okay. Let’s just get this over with.”

For a moment, Tim didn’t look at him. He unfroze with a blink.

“Good idea,” he said, giving Rhys a sunny smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “There are some things I’d like to say to your queen and to your boss.”

* * *

It was clearly everyone’s morning after. Seated on her throne, even Lilith looked rough. Her normally pristine fireball hair was flattened on one side and sticking up at unusual angles on the other. Her make-up looked smeared around her sun-coloured eyes, her lips pink where the stain had rubbed off. Moxxi looked a little better, although it was clear to Rhys that she’d been called from her beauty sleep. Rhys tried to feel a little guilty about that, but her approval of Vasquez’s plan still burned in his mind.

Speaking of… There he was, standing at Moxxi’s side with his teeth clenched and his shoulders raised, puffed up like a tough guy. Rhys swept his gaze over him, glancing past him like he might look over the statues he saw every single day.

Only Lilith’s right-hand man looked to be in decent shape. Roland stood, stiff and proud beside her throne, without a proverbial feather out of place.

“Great. You’re both here.” Lilith straightened from her slouch for the length of a breath and then collapsed once more. “Let’s just get this over with. You.” She pointed at Rhys. “Start talking.”

Rhys had a snide comment lined up, but prudence made him tread with caution over the ice of Lilith’s thinning patience. “Um. About what?” he asked.

“This whole mess we’re now in. Start there and work your way backwards,” she said.

“Wait. What mess?” Rhys felt his face grow warm. “I’m not actually in trouble, am I?” he demanded. Lilith narrowed her eyes, her upper lip curling back. “Um. Am I, your majesty?”

“You’re damn right you are!” Vasquez burst out. “You sabotaged and endangered a very delicate plot, and went against direct orders to do it!”

“So we’re just gonna talk about this like I’m not here, huh?” Tim said.

“I don’t intend to talk over your head, Titan,” Lilith said, examining him from her perch. “By all means, if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“A few things come to mind,” Tim said. Rhys gave his hand a warning squeeze. “For starters, an apology.”

Vasquez would not stop talking. “If you think an apology is gonna make up for what he’s done—!”

Tim cut him off with a look, much to Rhys’ pleasure.

“I meant from her,” Tim said, turning to the queen.

Lilith’s eyes were molten gold, always shifting like magma under the earth’s crust. At that moment, they seemed to flare with a spike of heat. Rhys stepped back, putting himself between Lilith’s melting gaze and Tim.

“Rhys.” Lilith crossed her legs, tried to assume the pose of someone who was at ease. Rhys wasn’t fooled. “You disobeyed Moxxi’s word. And mine. That sort of thing doesn’t go down well ‘round these parts.”

“I know,” Rhys said. “I’m…”

‘Sorry’ but the word stuck to his tongue. He could lie when necessary, but standing under the rising sun, with the scent of flowers and burning candles still on his stiff robes (stiff from the muck, from drying out on the floor of his temple where Tim had flung them), in his hair, and the scent of Tim on his skin, Rhys knew he wasn’t sorry. Not when Vasquez stood off to the side, glaring at him like the deposed rival he was. Not with Mordecai and Brick looking amused. Not with the memory of Tim’s sword still heavy in his hands, or the memory of those crimson arrows cutting into his skin. Tim had bandaged Rhys’ hand, afterwards, because of course he had.

Rhys wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. Not with the orchid bursting forth from Tim’s chest, white petals glowing like the reflection of the sun off the cresting waves of the sea.

Tim caught his eye and that was all it took to get Rhys smiling again, his very pressing and immediate troubles all but forgotten.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lilith sprawled back in her seat. “This isn’t gonna go anywhere, is it? Moxxi, are these two idiots as in love as their dopey smiles suggest?”

“They sure are,” Moxxi confirmed, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“Are you mad that your boy disobeyed you?” Lilith asked without moving her head.

“I’m not surprised,” Moxxi replied, her pale blue eyes shining.

“Are you willing to let this drop?” their queen asked.

Vasquez went pale. “Wait—!”

“If it means we can all go to bed, I’m happy to drop it,” Moxxi said.

“Amen to that,” Brick muttered.

“Okay, great.” Lilith waved her hand vaguely towards Rhys. “In recognition of your service, and seeing as how you basically achieved your goal almost entirely in spite of yourself, and out of consideration of the fact that you managed to hook a few of Olympus’ single suitors up with each other, I’m willing to let the whole thing slide.”

“Athena’s actually been in a good mood for weeks,” Mordecai confirmed. “I think she nearly smiled once.”

“Hammerlock’s been over the moon,” Brick confirmed. “I keep hearing him and Mister Torgue shouting sweet nothings.”

“Aw,” Mordecai said.

“Great. You are hereby pardoned of your crimes, Rhys.” Lilith waved her hand again, a clear dismissal. “Go on and do whatever it is you intended to do today and we’ll just consider this whole thing settled.”

Rhys bounced on his heels. He wheeled on Tim, and threw himself into his arms. Tim rocked backwards, smiling against Rhys’ cheek. Rhys kissed him, his mind already turning with possibilities. The future felt like an open book, and Rhys had so many things he wanted to write. Long and lazy mornings spent together. Shared meals. He would finally convince Tim to join them during a celebration. He would convince him to dance.

First, they would go back to Tim’s room and everything that would happen after, would happen.

Tim set Rhys down. “We’re not finished,” he said, smiling warmly.

Rhys’ smile faded. “We’re not?”

Tim cupped Rhys’ face, holding him gently. “I’m still owed an apology. For all that shit we were forced to go through.” He gave him a soft squeeze, pushing his cheeks together. His gaze flicked up to where their queen reclined, almost half-asleep. “Right?”

Rhys felt almost grateful that Tim held him. He didn’t want to know what Lilith might’ve looked like, although he could feel the burn of her melting gaze. Rhys could only take her death stares for so long. Tim didn’t know Lilith the way her subjects did. He didn’t know her temper, the cost of her wrath, the way it had shaped the very earth and the mountain they all lived on. How could he forget? Olympus was a volcano.

Tim’s hands softened, and slid down to Rhys’ shoulders. He looked so calm and certain.

“Sure.” Lilith sounded lazy. Rhys nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sorry. Happy?”

Tim nodded. “I think we’re done here,” he said.

“Good,” Rhys said, melting forward.

“Wait a minute!” Vasquez said. Rhys had forgotten he was even there.

Tim’s grip tightened for a moment. He turned towards Vasquez, his smile unchanging even as the surrounding expression turned solid.

Vasquez wasn’t as stupid as all his bluster made him seem. He cowered under Tim’s gaze.

“I may have another request after all, Queen of Olympus,” Tim said.

“I bet I can guess,” Lilith said.

As much as Rhys would’ve enjoyed watching Tim beat his work rival to death with his bare hands, he other things on his mind. They’d been here for far too long, and Tim’s bed sounded too inviting. He pulled Tim’s attention back towards himself, and gave him a kiss. Tim gentled under Rhys’ touch, that softness stealing over him once more.

“Later,” Rhys said, pushing his hand through Tim’s hair. “Take me back to your place.”

* * *

They went home. Rhys felt surprised when the place seemed familiar to him, the room with its writing desk with its empty vase, pieces of paper left on every surface, including the floor. Rolls slipped away from Rhys’ feet, kicked to another corner. Tim seemed almost embarrassed, but Rhys already loved it. He realised that he knew it already because this was where he’d spied on Tim that first night they finally met in person, when Rhys tried to chase Tim down a mountain and was nearly eaten. Another piece he would have to share with Tim.

Some other time, maybe.

Tim took Rhys to his bed, to his soft sheets and piled pillows. He carried him, entirely unnecessarily, but Rhys didn’t complain. He luxuriated in being held in Tim’s strong arms. Luxuriated more when Tim lay him down, and then lay down beside him, his hands already hot under his robes. Greedy for things Rhys would happily give him, again and again.

“I wanted to give you the sword back,” Rhys said, much later. They’d drawn Tim’s curtains, and they were left in the strange navy light, the sun glittering through the spaces woven into the fabric hung over their window. They were dozing, warm and satisfied. Tim lay curled around Rhys, with Rhys’ leg still thrown half over his thigh. They would have to bathe soon, but that was a distant concern. Rhys’ mind was back in the glade, with the fallen sword.

“I don’t care about the sword.” Tim’s eyes were closed, his lips brushing against Rhys’ chest as he spoke.

“I do,” Rhys said. He had his fingers in Tim’s thick hair, pushing the strands into and out of his style. “I want to give you something.”

“Don’t need it,” Tim mumbled.

“It’s important to me,” Rhys said, smoothing down the small hairs at his temple. “I hate that you lost things because of me.”

A soft breath puffed across Rhys’ chest, warm on his sweat-cooled skin. “You’ve given me plenty.”

Rhys tucked a lock of hair back from Tim's forehead. “It’s not enough. I want to shower you with gifts.” Another puff of air, and this one felt like a laugh. “I’m going to spoil you.”

“Do what you like,” Tim said, laying his heavy head back down on Rhys’ chest in a show of surrender.

Rhys looked down. Tim’s head was bathed in the golden glow of the thing growing from Rhys’ chest, inches from where Tim’s nose currently pressed. Its golden petals were locked tightly together, white leaves spilling like froth from the stem buried in Rhys' skin. The feeling he got at the sight of it wasn’t what Rhys expected at all. He expected that same elation, that giddiness, but all he felt was relief. Like he’d come home after a ten year campaign at sea.

Here it is, he thought. It was here all this time.

“I would like to marry you,” Rhys said, his voice a scratch above the sound of his breathing.

Tim only hummed, already on his way to sleep.

* * *

Rhys and Tim attended three weddings before the wheel of the year finished its rotation.

Janey and Athena were first, a pair of young, eager blushing brides. Rhys wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t saw it for himself, but Athena blushed more than anyone else. At first he’d thought it to be the results of a drink or two to steel herself, but Tim confirmed that it was only nerves. Nerves and something else, that wonderful fluttering in her throat, where too many words threatened to spill forth. Rhys knew it well.

Tim participated in the ceremony, standing by Athena’s side as her right-hand and best man. He looked dashing and handsome, dressed in his finest clothes, which Rhys had picked out for him, and with his sword at his hip.

Mister Torgue and Hammerlock were wed in two months following, as the seasons began to shift, Steele’s half-dead visage showing itself in the frost that crept along the green leaves and blade of grass at dawn. The sun banished the cold in a matter of hours, but Steele’s ice breath lingered with each passing day.

Hammerlock and Mister Torgue had a far more extravagant affair, attended by luminaries from Olympus and the realms below, all attending at Lady Hammerlock’s insistence. Both Hammerlock and Mister Torgue were strangely silent during the affair, their booming voices tweaked to a lower octave, as if they were in another god’s temple. Rhys understood this too, this sudden, strange fancy to be soft where you were once strong, out of some nameless sense of awe. As if the thing inside of you would startle at something as inconsequential as a raised voice. They became loud again over the course of their vows, and by the time the clay servers began pouring wine, they were in full strength once more.

Tim was in that wedding too, of course, although he did not take the role of best man. That role was Lady Aurelia’s, and she wore it with great dignity. Tim stood at her side, ready in case she should fall to any challenger to Hammerlock’s new husband.

The third and final wedding took place as the leaves began to change, and the winds grew in strength, rolling in from the north and bringing the bite of things to come. Yvette and Fiona, too giddy to stay still, unwilling to wait for the sake of niceties of appearances. Theirs was the shortest courtship, but it was no less stronger for it. They held hands throughout the ceremony. They could not be persuaded to look away from each other.

Tim sat in the audience for this wedding. Instead it was Rhys, and Vaughn, who both stood at Yvette’s side, although Rhys claimed he would fight for both brides, should a challenger appear. A sentiment which made Fiona and her sister, Sasha, laugh in his face.

(“They should take me more seriously,” Rhys sulked as the night turned to early morning, and he and Tim were settling into their shared bed, in their shared rooms.

“You still on about this?” Tim asked as he lay back.

“Yes. I can be terrifying. Don’t you think I’m terrifying?” Rhys sat on the edge of their bed and began the process of disrobing before bed. He pulled off his bracelets one by one, and set them aside. He removed his rings, and took out his earrings.

Tim sat up and pressed a kiss to Rhys’ neck. “I do,” he said, his breath ghosting across Rhys’ skin. He unhooked his necklaces, taking his care with each one, brushing his fingers against the back of Rhys’ neck. “I shake in my boots every time I see you.”)

It was Jack who asked them, that very same night.

“Me and Nisha are planning a trip,” he said, reclining like a deposed king as always, getting comfortable at their table. “It’ll be a long one.”

“How long?” Tim asked, dodging his brother’s question.

Nisha shrugged. She lay back onto Jack like he was a pillow for her use. “Could be a while.”

“I wanna plan around it. I don’t want to get called back suddenly just ‘cause you’re gettin’ hitched,” Jack said.

“What makes you think I’d call you back for my wedding?” Tim said the word, making it real. Setting alarm bells ringing in Rhys’ head.

Jack snorted, barely audible over what was happening between Rhys’ ears. “Who else would you ask to defend you, should a challenger appear?”

“Athena,” Tim replied without hesitation.

“Don’t be stupid. I’m the guy you want in your corner,” Jack insisted. He wrapped his arm around Nisha’s shoulders, dropping his hand inches from the curling midnight blue and violet lily sprouting from between her breasts. “Tell ‘em, babe.”

“Athena’s pretty tough, baby,” Nisha said as she dipped a piece of bread into olive oil.

“Not tougher than me though, right?” Jack asked. Nisha smiled around her food and didn’t reply.

“Don’t dodge the question, Timothy,” she said, languidly stretching her arm towards them. “When will we hear the bells a-ringin’?”

Backed into a corner with nothing else to wriggle free with, Tim looked over to Rhys. Rhys looked down at Tim’s chest, at the white and golden orchid that spilled forth, just over his heart. He looked up into Tim’s eyes and smiled.

“In the Spring,” Tim said.

“When the flowers come back,” Rhys said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for reading, leaving comments, and dropping kudos. I've gotten so much wonderful feedback for this story and it continues to blow my mind that people think so highly of these stories. 
> 
> The trouble with posting on a Monday morning is that my brain is usually pretty empty. I feel like I should have more to say about this story, but I'm drawing a blank. I may write up a post-mortem on my tumblr later, if I can think of something to say. You can find that tumblr at nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks again!
> 
> oh wait i thought of one: writing blasphemes for deities sucks. i never want to do it again.


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